


If You Leave

by whoyoureallyare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And then everything would be okay, Angst, But John and Sherlock are very bad at communication, But focused on Johnlock, But it's there, But not happy to get there, External Homophobia, Fix-It, Fluff, Greg Knows Things, Happy Ending, In a flashback as well, John has a lot of internal homophobia, John is very confused, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary is already dead, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of parental abuse (flashback), Minor case I guess too, Miscommunication, Molly isn't really in it but she may be mentioned, Mrs. Hudson is in it occasionally, Mycroft is actually supportive, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Seriously they just need to talk, Sherlock accidentally confesses, This is pretty much just a romance story, mentions of drug use, nothing too graphic, obviously, they just need to talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoyoureallyare/pseuds/whoyoureallyare
Summary: Time has passed since the events of Sherrinford. Sherlock is still haunted by Eurus trying to get him to kill Mycroft or John. Sherlock has a nightmare in which he kills John. John is there to comfort him, but Sherlock accidentally tells him more than he means to.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 146





	1. I Need You Now Like I Need You Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes place after S4. It is named after Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark's song "If You Leave." Yes, this is a breakup song, but it seems to fit the story so I just went with it. Each chapter is named after a specific lyric in the song as well.
> 
> There is implied previous drug use in this fic, and there is consideration to use again in this chapter. Nothing happens.
> 
> Suicide is also mentioned, but nothing happens. In later chapters, there are suicidal thoughts that are there but nothing in detail and no suicide attempts are shown.
> 
> This is not very violent, but I put the warning due to the drug use and suicide references. In later chapters there will be more violence, but it will not be very graphic. If this bothers you, please don't read. I don't think it needs the mature warning but I put it just to be on the safe side.
> 
> Apologies for any grammar or spelling errors.
> 
> Enjoy!

John was late. 

Sherlock sighed and glanced at the clock. He had put Rosie into bed over three hours ago. It was now midnight. 

John stayed out late sometimes. Sherlock knew this, and he knew he couldn’t control John, but did he have to be late? The least John could have done was text him. 

He sighed again and looked at John’s empty chair. So much had changed. It used to be the two of them. Then it was Mary with them. Sherlock hadn’t liked that. But then Mary died, leaving John to look after Rosie. John moved back into Baker Street with Rosie, and everything seemed to be better than before.

He stood up, checking on Rosie, before making his way into his own bedroom. He got ready slowly, trying to prolong the time before he had to sleep. 

Finally he gave up, sinking into his bed, and was asleep within minutes. Normally Sherlock didn’t sleep. Sleeping was boring. But he had been out on a case with Lestrade for the past few nights, barely sleeping, and for once he was exhausted. 

_The dream unfolded in front of him. It was a sight he had dreamt about countless times since Sherrinford. Grey walls closed around him. John saying they had to be soldiers. Eurus’s voice haunting him._

_“You have to choose, Sherlock,” Eurus whispered from the screen._

_“I-I can’t.” He couldn’t stop his voice from breaking. He thought he was above all emotions. He thought wrong._

_Logically, he knew the right thing to do was to kill John. Mycroft had the British government at his command. Mycroft was his brother. He was an asset. And John agreed._

_But John was his best friend. He loved John, as much as it pained him to admit it. And he needed John. When John left, he fell back into the dark place._

_He turned the gun to his chin, and started to count. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”_

_Eurus protested. “You can’t. You don’t know about Redbeard yet.”_

_He lowered the gun. “Tell me about Redbeard!”_

_“Not until you kill one. It’s the only way. Kill one, and I’ll let you go. Kill one, and I’ll tell you anything you want.”_

_He points the gun at the floor. “You have to, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Mycroft agreed. “You have to choose. You can save the girl, and you can save yourself.”_

_“Make it quick, Sherlock.”_

_Wrestling between emotions and logic, Sherlock turned the gun between one, and the other. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he blinked angrily._

_“Sherlock, it has to be me. Mycroft’s right,” John told him softly._

_“Get on with it, then,” Mycroft agreed._

_Seeing John standing there, ready to die for him, made Sherlock’s heart sink even more. Never before had anyone been so willing to die. For him. He couldn’t decide. He couldn’t decide. Eurus started a countdown._

_“Ten. Nine. Eight…” She smiled as she counted. “Time’s running out, Sherlock.”_

_He wildly glanced from one to another, then turned the gun on John. Alone is what I have. Alone is what protects me. If he killed John, he’d be alone again. And he wouldn’t have to choose between anything else. But he didn’t like being alone. He loved John’s company._

_“Four. Three. Two. One.”_

_And he fired. John fell backwards, eyes widened in shock. Sherlock fell to his knees, a burning in his chest. Loss. His eyes closed, and Eurus started to speak-_

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” His eyes flew open and he breathed heavily. His blankets were thrown on the floor, and his hands were slick with sweat. 

John stood above him, looking concerned. Sherlock tried to control his breath. “Hello, John,” he managed to say. “You’re late.” 

“Good thing I am, too,” he says grimly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have heard you.”

“Heard me?” Sherlock could only stare at him. 

“Yeah. You were having a nightmare, I think. Muttering things.”

“Like what?” He hated how his voice shook. Hated it. He was showing emotion, and emotion was weakness. 

“Just my name. John.” 

He closed his eyes, willing not to let anxiety bubble up. “Nightmare,” he spat out, finally. John sat on the edge of his bed, and Sherlock swung his legs over so he was sitting next to him. 

“What happened?” John asked, gently. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He could still hear the gunshot, still see John falling, still hear Eurus telling him to choose. He pressed his hands to his face. 

“It’s okay. I’m here.” John kept his voice low. He reached up and gently removed Sherlock’s hands from his face, cradling them in his own. He held them tight and gradually the shaking stopped. “Now tell me what happened.”

“Eurus. Making me choose. And I chose _you_ , John. I had to shoot _you_. You _died_ because of me. You’re _dead_.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice steady, but the look on John’s face told him he was unsuccessful. 

“I’m not dead.” John’s voice was soothing. “I’m right here.” He ran his thumb along Sherlock’s palms. “Do you have that nightmare often?”

Sherlock allowed himself to nod, shame burning inside him. “I’ve never had to pick. Not before tonight. I’m sorry, John.”

John pulled his hand away, and Sherlock’s heart sank. John hated him for choosing Mycroft, even if it was just a dream. How could he not? But then John’s arm was around Sherlock and he pulled Sherlock down so he was resting on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Really, it is. You had to make a choice, so you did. It was just a dream.” 

“But what if,” he took a deep breath, “what if I had chosen?”

“You didn’t,” John said in that same, quiet voice. “I’m here. And I always will be.”

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock moved himself a little closer, not wanting to scare John away. 

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay.” He closed his eyes. He could still see John, falling backwards. Still heard the shot, ringing in his ears. 

“Why does this bother you so much?” John looked at him, clearly heartbroken. His eyebrows were furrowed, and Sherlock could tell he was trying to keep his voice from cracking. 

“Because I love you.” Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth in horror and shifted away from John, breaking all contact completely. The air was cold in the absence of John’s warmth. He turned away so he didn’t have to see John’s eyes. He knew what he would see.

Pity. Sherlock hated pity. John wasn’t gay. John kept telling him that he wasn’t gay. Which hurt more than Sherlock wanted to admit. Sherlock was, in fact, gay. And there was a high possibility - okay, more than a high possibility - that he was in love with his best friend. Who was definitely, positively not gay.

John gently rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock flinched. “You okay?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. _No, of course I’m not okay! I’m in love with you!_ He wanted to scream at John, he wanted to do a number of things, but he just stayed mute.

John put his arms around Sherlock and gently guided Sherlock’s head to his shoulder. He held Sherlock tight, tighter than Sherlock had ever been held before. It was incredibly comforting, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping this would happen someday. But he stayed stiff. “Just forget what I said, okay, John?” He said. Better if they could never, ever talk about it than for Sherlock to lose John completely.

“Why? You’re my best friend. Of course I love you,” John said, his eyebrow raising and his mouth pressing into a line.

Sherlock abruptly pushed John’s arms away and stood up. “I need air,” he said, feeling as if he were suffocating. Best friend. Best friend. John wasn’t just his best friend. John was his everything. 

He blindly walked to the door, throwing on his coat and grabbing his scarf. John’s voice called to him, but he was already out the door. 

*****

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking. The night air was brisk and cold, and it felt good after the stifling heat of his sweat-soaked blankets. He longed for the nights spent in the countryside, where he could see the stars. 

He shivered and wondered exactly how late it was. His phone chimed, probably Mycroft, but he ignored it. Every minute spent outside made the cold settle more deeply into his bones, and he drew his coat more tightly around him. London was quiet at this time of night, yet not silent. Raucous laughter floated through the night from a nearby bar. Sherlock entertained the idea of getting a drink, but decided against it. It was a good idea to stay sober tonight. 

He didn’t think John would follow him. In fact, he knew John wouldn’t. Not until the morning. It would not be very smart of him if John found him drunk, or high. Sherlock ached for the obliviousness of cocaine. He would stay strong. John would not find him in a drug den again. The disappointment in his eyes was enough once, he didn’t need that again. 

John hated the drugs. Sherlock had tried to keep them a secret, but bloody Lestrade had to go and ruin everything. He was lucky John hadn’t left him after that. Incredibly lucky. 

John had been very forgiving of Sherlock. They hadn’t moved on yet from him faking his death, and Sherlock didn’t expect that John would. The hurt in John’s voice when he saw Sherlock’s body was something that he never hoped to hear again. It almost made him forget about Moriarty and tell John he was okay. 

_“I’m a doctor. Let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”_

Sherlock’s eyes burned at the memory. After everything he had been through tonight, this was what made him cry?

Of course it was. He felt so terribly guilty for not telling John. He hated those two years, hated every second of them. And then he’d come back, and everything was different. John was getting married, and then they kept fighting. John didn’t need Sherlock anymore. But Sherlock still needed John. Sherlock always needed John.

Sherlock realized he was in love with John at the wedding. Greg had come up to him after his speech, and told him it was a great speech but made it incredibly obvious. Confused, he had asked what was obvious. Greg told him it was obvious how he really felt about John. That he was in love with John. Sherlock denied it adamantly, but realized that Greg was right mere minutes afterwards. Greg was bloody right, but there were more pressing things to worry about. 

_“You’re hardly going to need me around, now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.”_

John had looked at him, and Sherlock had looked back, and then they laughed, and then Mary laughed, and then Sherlock realized. He was in love with John Watson. Who had just gotten married. Whose wife was actually pregnant. The smile disappeared from his face. John and Mary went off to dance, and he looked around the room. He knew barely anyone. He wanted to go over to Janine-she was boring, but better than no one-but even she was busy. Molly was with her boyfriend and Mrs. Hudson. And Sherlock was alone again.

That’s why he left. He couldn’t bear to see everyone else. So happy, and together. He didn’t need people. He told himself that he didn’t need people. He just needed one. Just that one person. With John around, he didn’t want anyone else. But then John ran off and got married-he supposed he was partially to blame for that, what with the dying and all-but John didn’t need him anymore. 

Sherlock never stopped needing John.

Sherlock thought back to their conversation. Somehow, he ended up in Battersea Park, looking at the Thames. His walk took less than an hour, so the darkness hadn’t begun to fade yet. 

He was a bloody idiot. John was there, he was actually with Sherlock. They were hugging, and Sherlock relished every second of it. Then he had to go and mess it up, like usual. He said the wrong thing, which prompted John to say that Sherlock was his best friend. As if Sherlock didn’t know this already. John had told him time and time again that he wasn’t gay. Sherlock knew this. And he had had John right there, right in his arms. Of course he had to mess it up. Now that the secret was out, Sherlock was worried that they would never talk again. Which was a likely outcome. Why would he want to talk to him after he knew Sherlock’s feelings? 

Sherlock decided to archive the entire interaction in his Mind Palace. He spent an extra long time on the feeling of being held. He hadn’t been held in a long time. He decided he quite liked the feeling, like he always did when John hugged him. 

Sherlock went into the wing labelled John, and focused on all the good memories. The times John laughed, or smiled. The times John called him brilliant. And most importantly, the times when John told him he mattered. Sherlock was still going through these memories as the first rays of light appeared, shattering the surface of the Thames and bathing the whole world in light pinks and greys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic.
> 
> Word count: 2,266
> 
> Here is a link to If You Leave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Basically, Sherlock told John that he loved him, and then panicked and left. This is not good, because literally all they needed to do was to talk. John is fairly confused, and the reason why will become clear next chapter.
> 
> This chapter was short because it was the first one. The next ones will be longer.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this.


	2. You Always Said We'd Be Friends Someday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter. I'm going to try and post updates at a minimum of once per week. This one was a bit quicker, because it was mostly prewritten and just needed to be edited. In the future, updates might take more time than this but I'll try to get them done as quickly as possible. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit darker than the first one. John thinks that Sherlock might have turned to drugs again. There are multiple mentions of drugs and mentions of previous suicidal thoughts. Nothing happens, but suicide is mentioned. 
> 
> There is also parental abuse (violence and mentions that the parent had been drinking and was under the influence). The f-slur is used twice in this chapter during a flashback. The abuse also happens in a flashback. This chapter has internalized homophobia and external homophobia and violence due to homophobia.
> 
> Please read with caution. 
> 
> Apologies for any spelling or grammar errors. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John stared at the ground, wondering what went wrong. What he said. One second, Sherlock’s head was on his shoulder, and the next he was storming out of the house, not telling John where he was going. That in itself wasn’t surprising, as Sherlock didn’t often tell John where he was going - but he rarely, if ever, left like that. The only logical conclusion he could come to was that Sherlock was upset with him for some reason. But Sherlock tried very hard not to get upset, at least not visibly.

Perhaps the nightmare had just shaken him. Perhaps he was scared of telling John that he loved him - he did close up after that - but they had said that before, at John’s wedding. He didn’t see why this time would be different.

Frankly, John was exhausted. He had barely got any rest during the last few days. Granted, he got more than Sherlock, but that wasn’t saying much. He figured that Sherlock would show up in the morning. Too tired to even make it up the stairs, he curled up in Sherlock’s bed without a second thought. If Sherlock came back, surely he would wake John up. And with that, John fell asleep. 

Sherlock wasn’t in the flat the next morning. 

The bright sunlight woke John up, and he squinted. The sheets smelled familiar, comforting, and with a start he realized that he had actually fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock would be incredibly angry with him. He turned his head automatically to see if Sherlock was next to him. He wasn’t. With a sigh, John slid out of bed, surprised that he didn’t hear strains of a violin coming from the living room. 

He left the bedroom, expecting to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, or at the desk, or doing experiments in the kitchen. What he was greeted with was a silent flat and no sign of him. His coat wasn’t on the rack, nor was his scarf. Not for the first time, John began to panic. Sherlock rarely stayed out overnight without at least leaving a note, and there was no note. Whatever John said, it really must have upset him. John debated calling Mycroft, but while Mycroft could have all of the British government to swarm Sherlock, Mycroft didn’t really know Sherlock. Not enough to talk about this. So he called Greg.

“Hello?” Greg said, picking up.

“Hi, uh, Greg,” John said. “Is Sherlock with you?”

“No,” Greg said, sounding confused. “Last time I saw him was yesterday. With you.” 

“Damn,” John said, his heart sinking. He had no idea where Sherlock could’ve gone. 

“Is he not with you?”

“No.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” 

“Middle of the night. We had a row.” 

“You and Sherlock often row. I’m sure he’ll turn up.” 

“No, Greg, this one was different,” John explained, inhaling sharply. 

“What was it about?”

“Sherlock had a-a nightmare of sorts. I woke him up, and he seemed really disoriented. Then it got...weird.” 

Greg sighed over the phone. “I really hope you comforted him.” 

“I did. I mean, I tried to. I sort of held him, and then he said that he loved me-” 

Greg cut John off after this. “Did you say it back?”

“Of course I did. He’s my best friend. I told him that as well.” John really didn’t know what he had done wrong. Of course he loved Sherlock. Of course Sherlock was his best friend. He just didn’t see why that would upset him.

Greg was silent for a long while. “Yeah, sorry, I can’t really help,” he finally said.

“Seriously?” John was frustrated. “Do you at least know why he’s upset?”

“I think so.”

“Can you tell me?”

“It’s not my place. This is between you and Sherlock. I’m sorry, John.” 

“Greg!” 

“Find him, John. Find him and force him to explain. Tell him he needs to. Good luck.” 

The line went silent. John put his head in his hands, feeling more lost than ever. Where would Sherlock even go?

Praying that he’d respond, he pulled out his mobile and texted him.

_Where are you?_

He sank into his chair, letting his eyes glaze over as he stared at Sherlock’s. After what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, he gave up and called Mycroft.

“I need you to find Sherlock,” he said as soon as Mycroft picked up.

“Why?” John could clearly picture his expression: eyebrows raised, slightly concerned, slightly amused.

“I don’t know where he is. He didn’t respond to my text.” 

“He never responds.” 

“He does to me.” 

“Well, aren’t you special.” Definitely amusement. 

“Seriously, please, just find him.” 

Mycroft hung up, and minutes later left him a message saying _Battersea Park. Near the river._

John stood up, immediately throwing on his coat. He asked Mrs. Hudson to look after Rosie: “It’s about Sherlock. He’s gone.” He ran out of the flat and called a cab, immediately getting in. “Battersea Park, please.”

The cab pulled up to the park, and John handed the cabbie some money. “Keep the change.” The cabbie smiled at him, and John nodded, scanning for Sherlock. He prayed that Sherlock hadn’t...that he hadn’t...no. He couldn’t have. Not because of that. He made his way to the river as fast as he could, hoping Sherlock would still be there. He was. 

Sherlock was leaning against the railing, looking at the Thames. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and John felt a tug at the pit of his stomach. He wished he could run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. It had been so soft last night. Sherlock’s coat hung around him as usual. 

“John,” Sherlock said as John walked over to him. John smiled in spite of himself, because Sherlock always knew when John was near him. 

“Are you high?” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he winced. It was probably insensitive to ask. John hoped that he wasn’t.

“No.”

John leaned against the railing and looked at him. He didn’t look high. He also very much didn’t look at John, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the river. “Where have you been?”

“Here. Mycroft told you where I was.” Of course he knew that John had called Mycroft. 

“Yes,” John said. They lapsed into silence. John was used to silence around Sherlock, but this felt different. More awkward. Usually, Sherlock was content not to talk. This time, John could feel the energy radiating off him. He wanted John to say something. He was also angry. He was waiting. “Why did you leave?” 

Sherlock didn’t respond. 

“Lestrade told me I should force you to tell me,” John added, hoping that was the right thing to say.

“You called Lestrade? Why?”

“Because I was worried.” 

“You also slept in my bed last night,” Sherlock said, turning to him and frowning. _“My_ bed.” 

“Yes, I did, because you left for no reason. I was waiting for you,” John burst out, frustrated with his lack of helpfulness. He appeared to be determined for John to make the first move, but he wasn’t giving John anything to go on. 

“I didn’t leave for no reason.” His frown deepened and John found that he didn’t much like it when Sherlock’s sulk was focused on him. 

“Yeah? What was the reason?” 

“You can be remarkably thick sometimes, you know that?” Sherlock told him, echoing his own words from that night.

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. But I don’t know what’s going on, and Lestrade wouldn’t tell me, and _you’re_ not telling me, so how do you expect me to know?”

Something like anger flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “You were supposed to pay attention. To me. Because according to you, we are _best friends.”_ He hissed out the last few words, and John’s confusion grew. 

“We are, aren’t we?”

Sherlock turned away, evidently done with the conversation. “Don’t get me dinner, John, I won’t be back at the flat for a while.” 

“Sherlock, wait.” John caught the sleeve of his coat in his fingers. “Explain. Please.” 

“Isn’t it obvious,” Sherlock said, scowling. “I don’t want to be best friends.” John’s stomach dropped, and he was so surprised that he let go of Sherlock’s sleeve. “I want to be _more.”_ Oh. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? John fucking Watson. Who absolutely, definitely _is not gay.”_

*****

After Sherlock said this, John just stared at him. Mouth slightly open, lips parted. For the briefest second, Sherlock wanted to press forward, take John in his arms and kiss him. His hand twitched, like it was going to take John’s, and he glared at it. John’s eyes were wide, dark blue, and so beautiful. Sherlock’s heart hurt.

“I-” John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him. It was evident as to what John would say. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I don’t feel that way about you. Because how could he? John was perfect, John was everything, and Sherlock was nothing. Yes, he was more intelligent than most people, but beyond that? He had been informed, by many, that he didn’t even have a heart. Sherlock breathed deeply before starting to speak. 

“How can you not understand? I did everything for you. I jumped off a building and faked my death for two years for you. I was ready to kill my own brother for you. I planned a perfect wedding for you. I wrote you and your wife a waltz. I forgave the woman who shot me _for you._ I wrote a speech that evidently confessed my feelings, according to Lestrade, which I’m sorry about because it was _your wedding._ I left the wedding because I was jealous. I felt more emotion than I have, ever, just because of you. How can you not notice this? Sherlock Holmes, pining after his own best mate. His straight best mate. Because you constantly told me you weren’t gay. You told everyone we weren’t a couple. Everyone, John. I knew we would never be a couple, and so I’ve never told you. I’ve allowed you to keep breaking me, so long as you would be happy. You told me I put you through hell when I faked my death. At least you thought I was gone. You’re still here, but even farther away, because I know I can’t have you. It hurts, John. I thought I was above all emotion, but apparently you transcend everything.

“Have you ever wondered why I went on drugs after you got married? Why I left your wedding? I looked around and I saw you, so happy. You didn’t need me anymore. You had everything you wanted. You didn’t need your freak best friend. You didn’t need me. Nobody needed me. I looked around and I was so alone. I was so alone, and surrounded by people. I had already messed up your wedding with the murder. I didn’t want to ruin it further. It was your day, and best for Sherlock Holmes to be gone like everyone wanted. 

“I couldn’t bear to live without you, though. After your wedding I waited and I waited for you to call. I thought, maybe John is busy. Maybe after his Sex Holiday he’ll finally call me. Maybe we’ll be able to go on cases. But no. I waited and you never showed up. Maybe that was selfish of me, but I didn’t expect my own best friend to just drop me. The only thing that helped was the drugs. Do you know what I hallucinated, John? I hallucinated you. It was the only time I could see you. They weren’t even good hallucinations. You accused me. We didn’t solve a case. We failed. But you were there, and an angry John is better than no John at all. You can’t possibly know what that is like. I never have felt this way. I don’t _love._ I don’t care about people. Yet here you are.

“I’ll admit it. I don’t know how to handle emotions. I am terrible at human interactions. Which is quite possibly the only thing I’m bad at. But when I used to see you with Mary, sometimes I thought it would have been better if I had died for real.” Sherlock finished his speech, turning away from John. He probably didn’t need to tell John all of that. He had been trying to keep it a secret, but sometime during the night he had come to the conclusion that it would kill him if he kept it inside. It was probably a mistake to tell John everything, but he just couldn’t hold it inside. Sherlock was never one to avoid the truth. 

Sherlock didn’t do relationships. He didn’t care about people. He had never cared for someone as much as he cared for John Watson. Magnussen pointed out that John was Sherlock’s pressure point. He had been right. Sherlock would do anything for John. He took brisk steps away from John, letting John do what he wanted with the information.

John didn’t follow him. 

Sherlock tried to keep back tears. Crying was weakness. He didn’t cry. Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, _did not cry._ He walked with his head held high, trying to figure out where he could go next. Mycroft would find him anywhere. Sherlock was exhausted, which wasn’t something he was used to feeling. He wanted his brother. He wanted someone else to just be there. 

_Pick me up._

Minutes after he sent the text, a black car pulled up to the curb. He climbed inside and folded his arms. He couldn’t see John anywhere. When he arrived at Mycroft’s, he was informed by the driver that Mycroft wasn’t there. However, there was a note stuck to the front door. 

_Little brother, I’ll be back later. Do try and keep my house the way it is._

Sherlock crawled upstairs and collapsed into a guest bedroom. John wouldn’t be able to find him here, and Mycroft could keep him out of the house if necessary. He couldn’t figure out which would be worse: John following him and telling him he didn’t feel the same way, or John not following him at all. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that John would come find him, take Sherlock in his arms, and tell him, “of course I love you, you bloody idiot.” But the thought of that was too painful. He closed his eyes and wished he had his violin. 

Sherlock’s sleep was restless, full of dreams about John. Thankfully, none about Eurus. John flitted in and out, sometimes yelling at him, sometimes walking away, sometimes telling Sherlock that he loved him and would never leave him. Sherlock awoke feeling barely rested, his eyes heavy and his brain moving a bit slower than usual. Which was very annoying, he reflected. Feeling too brain-dead to move, he instead opted to stare at the ceiling until Mycroft knocked on his door, hours later. 

“Come in.” Too tired to even snap at Mycroft, Sherlock pushed himself into a seated position, reclining against the headboard. 

“What is going on, exactly?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, taking a chair by the window. 

“How much do you know?” Mycroft studied Sherlock for a few moments. Sherlock looked down at his hands, at his coat all rumpled from sleeping in it. 

“I know that something happened with John. If I had to guess, you confessed your love, he said he was your best friend, you panicked and left, he found you, you confessed your love again and then ran. Like a coward.” Mycroft didn’t say it maliciously, but his intent wasn’t kind, either. 

“I’m not a coward,” Sherlock hissed.

“Whatever you say, little brother. Sooner or later, you will have to face him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” Mycroft stood up. “Stay as long as you wish. But please, do mend things with him. I quite like Doctor Watson.” 

Sherlock watched him leave the room, gazing at the door long after it closed. He had no idea where to go from here. Should he find John? John obviously didn’t try to find him. He sat there, thinking, until Mycroft poked his head back in. 

“Doctor Watson called. I told him you were here.”

“What did he say?” Sherlock asked, trying to ignore the fact that his heart had just about leapt out of his chest. 

“He asked if I knew where you were, I told him you were here, he said okay and hung up. Sorry to disappoint.” Mycroft closed the door again. 

Sherlock curled back under the blanket. He was stunned. John had called. He had wanted to know where Sherlock was. But he hadn’t asked if he could come over and he hadn’t asked if Sherlock was okay. Which meant that John was, most likely, upset with him in some form. Sherlock wasn’t surprised. No one wanted to hear what he had to say. John could tolerate it, but Sherlock supposed that he had a breaking point. One he had just found. Sherlock knew what he was like. He knew that he obsessed over things until it just about drove him crazy. He hated that about himself, if he was being honest. He knew John hated it too. John probably thought he was one of Sherlock’s obsessions. But John was so much more than an obsession. John was everything. 

*****

Sherlock walked away, leaving John’s mind spinning. It clicked into place and despite John understanding it logically, he had no idea how to process this. Sherlock was in love with him. 

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him. 

He put his head in his hands. He was fucked. 

John had no idea what his feelings for Sherlock were. It was...complicated. He always knew Sherlock was gay. It was obvious, from the way he deduced Moriarty to the way he...everything. But loving men just wasn’t something John did.

_He lay on his bed next to Christopher. The other boy’s eyes sparkled with laughter, and in spite of himself, John grinned back. Christopher was...well, Christopher was perfect. John couldn’t help it. He reached up and ran his fingers through Christopher’s auburn curls. Christopher’s smile changed slightly. It became softer, more vulnerable. John leaned in a little closer, close enough so that he could see each of Christopher’s freckles. He didn’t know how it happened, but then they were kissing. It was very gentle and a little awkward. Something warm stirred in John’s stomach and he smiled into the kiss._

_When they broke apart, he and Christopher smiled at each other._

_“Was that okay?” Christopher asked anxiously._

_“It was fine. More than fine,” John reassured him. He kissed him again to make sure Christopher understood._

_From there on out, everything changed. John had dated girls before - many of them. This was different. For one, they couldn’t show affection in public. Ever. John was too worried about what would happen, and Christopher didn’t want a repeat of his coming out experience. Their kisses were private, in empty rooms at school or at Christopher’s house or in John’s bedroom. There was the occasional brush of fingers in the hallway between classes, discreet but enough to remind both of them they weren't alone. It was the hardest thing John ever had to do._

_John had invited Christopher over when his parents and sister were supposed to be gone. His dad, on a business trip. Her mom, to go visit her sisters. Harry was at her girlfriend’s house, though their parents presumed they were just friends._

_John and Christopher spent some time in John’s bedroom, lazily kissing and talking on his bed. Eventually, though, they got hungry and made their way down to the couch. John, caught up in the freedom of having the house and Christopher to himself all night, reassured him that it was okay to kiss on the couch. Nobody was home. It would be okay._

_They put on a movie, holding hands and cuddling under a blanket. A sense of safeness, of security enveloped John and he allowed himself to relax completely. A few scenes in, Christopher turned to him._

_“We’re home alone, right?”_

_John confirmed that with a nod. Christopher, smiling mischievously, kissed him. It wasn’t their first kiss, nor was it their most passionate, but John kissed him back with urgency. It wasn’t often when they could just be alone like this. The kiss started heating up, and in spite of himself John’s stomach fluttered. Christopher. Christopher. Christopher. John was lying on top of Christopher. They were so caught up in each other that John didn’t know the door was flung open._

_“John Hamish Watson, what in the devil are you doing?”_

_He pushed himself off of Christopher, his heart pounding. This couldn’t be happening._

_“Nothing.”_

_“Don’t say it’s nothing. You were kissing another boy. Do you know how_ wrong _that is?”_

_Christopher awkwardly sat up. “Sorry, sir.”_

_“I think it’s best if you go.”_

_Christopher looked at John after his dad said that. John didn’t want Christopher to go. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. His father wasn’t supposed to be here._

_“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Christopher._

_Christopher kissed him briefly. John wanted to tell him, no, don’t do that, don’t go, I’ll argue with him. But it was no use._

_“Faggots.” The word hissed over John’s body, plunging him in ice._

_“Don’t call him that.” John glared at his father. His father had obviously been drinking. His speech was slightly slurred, but his words were venomous all the same._

_His father lurched towards them. “Get away from my son.” His anger was directed towards Christopher._

_“Just go. Please, Christopher.”_

_Christopher nodded, eyes sparkling with tears._

_John stood up, following Christopher to the door._

_“Get back here.”_

_His father gripped John’s wrist, and John’s eyes widened in terror. “Let go of me.” His grip tightened, his father bringing his fist around to hit John’s shoulder. John twisted around so that he was facing him. His dad brought his fist to John’s nose, and it hurt. Bloody hell, it hurt. “Christopher! Go!”_

_“No, I won’t-I won’t let you-”_

_“Go. Please.”_

_John coughed as his father hit his stomach. He heard the door slam behind him. Christopher was gone._

_“He’s gone. He’s gone.”_

_“Never. Again.” His father’s voice could have been a whisper, but his eyes were filled with malice. “Do you hear me? Never again. I_ will not _raise a fag.”_

_John nodded._

_After that, he kept his distance from Christopher. His father managed to tell him, every time he got the chance, that there was something wrong with him. Unnatural. Weird. John found himself avoiding Christopher, even going as far as switching his schedule so they wouldn’t have the same classes anymore. Christopher tried to talk to him, but John acted like he couldn’t hear. Because, really, if he couldn’t be with Christopher, it was too painful to even talk about._

_John Watson never kissed another man again._

John Watson was not gay. He was not. John didn’t love men. He couldn’t. Not again. His breath shuddered as he thought of Sherlock’s eyes, those pale blue, shifting to green as he spoke, begging John to listen. Those eyes. As hard as John tried, he never could figure out the color of Sherlock’s eyes. He had been close enough, on a few occasions, to see the speck of brown in his right eye. Damn. He loved Sherlock’s eyes. 

He needed to focus. 

He needed to figure out how he felt about Sherlock. John had been in love a few times. Most noticeable was Mary. Another woman before he went into war. And Christopher. He had had crushes, and he knew what that felt like. He knew what love felt like. So why was it so complicated to know how he felt about Sherlock? 

He mulled it over in his head for hours. He tried to replay every conversation he’d ever had. The semi-awkward scene at Angelo’s. Sherlock at the wedding. All of it. His legs grew tired from leaning against the railing for so long, but he didn’t move. Hours later he came to the conclusion that none of this mattered if he couldn’t find Sherlock. He still had no idea what he thought about the whole scenario, but right now, he needed to find Sherlock. Sighing, he called Mycroft. Again. 

“Do you know where he is?” John asked as soon as Mycroft picked up.

“Will you stop losing my brother?”

“Shut up. Just tell me where he is.” 

“He’s with me. My house.” 

“Okay.” And John hung up. 

This was new, and a bad development. Sherlock adamantly told John how much he hated Mycroft any chance he got, so if he went there things must’ve been worse than John assumed. And he’d assumed that they were pretty bad already. 

John didn’t know exactly where Mycroft’s house was. He supposed he could ask Sherlock, but he had no idea as to what Sherlock’s current state of mind was. He hesitantly decided to just start walking in the general direction of somewhere, and hoped that Mycroft would pick him up. 

Somehow, Mycroft knew what he was doing. A car pulled up to the curb and Anthea stepped out. 

“Hi,” he said.

“Get in.” 

John hastily climbed inside the cab. He tried to figure out exactly what he would say when he got to Sherlock. He had never been good with words, and now would be a good time to get better with them. If only his mind would cooperate. An image, unbidden, rose to the front of his mind. Sherlock, hugging him so tightly when he saw him. Tilting his face up until he was staring into his eyes and then-and then-John shook his head. 

The car ride was relatively quick compared to the ride over. Mycroft’s car hummed beneath him and he found himself enjoying the ride in spite of himself. It was easier to focus on the car than to focus on Sherlock, anyways. Before long, he found himself pulling up to an elegant mansion on the outskirts of London. He gaped. 

“Get out,” Anthea told him. John sighed, stepping out of the car. Making his way up to the front steps, he tried to calm his stomach. It was just Sherlock. He had seen Sherlock so many times.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, but Mycroft pulled it open. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“Is Sherlock there?”

Mycroft nodded, scrutinizing him. 

“Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a link to If You Leave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Word count: 4,427
> 
> John finds Sherlock with the help of Mycroft. Sherlock confesses and then leaves...again. John doesn't know what to make of this - he finally understands - so he remembers his previous crushes, including his ex-boyfriend Christopher (original character). He and Christopher broke up when John's dad caught them kissing. John was hit because of this. All John and Sherlock need to do is talk about it, but they are still terrible at communicating.
> 
> Next update hopefully in a few days.


	3. Promise Me Just One More Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter. I'll try to have the fourth out within a week and/or as quickly as I can. 
> 
> This chapter has mild drug use. It talks about the time after Mary dies and how Sherlock turned to drugs. A slight mention of suicide as well.
> 
> Please read with caution, and, as always, apologies for any grammar or spelling errors.
> 
> Enjoy!

John’s heart was beating irrationally fast. It was just Sherlock. Just Sherlock. He wondered exactly what Sherlock would do when he saw John. 

John followed Mycroft up the stairs. He barely had time to marvel at the grandeur of it all because Mycroft was walking extremely quickly. Mycroft stopped abruptly in front of a plain white door. Shut. He nodded for John to go in, and John swallowed. 

John pushed the door open. He sucked in a breath when he saw Sherlock, who was curled beneath a blanket. Only his messy curls were visible. For a moment, John imagined walking over and curling beneath the blanket with him. He was probably warm, and John was tired. 

Shaking his head, John shut the door softly. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stirred but didn’t sit up. 

“Sherlock.”

He still didn’t sit up. John sighed and walked over to him. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and when Sherlock immediately sat up, he removed his hand. 

“John.” His voice was rough and heavy from sleep.

“Hi.” He scratched the back of his neck hesitantly. “I guess we should talk?”

At that, Sherlock’s eyes flashed and all traces of sleep disappeared from his face. “No.”

“No? But…”

“You’re tired, I’m obviously tired. Let’s not talk.” 

“Sherlock.”

“Forget it. Just forget it.” His eyes were almost pleading, but John could see the familiar stubbornness in the way he clenched his jaw.

John took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how I feel.” 

“Just stop. We’ve tried talking about it before. It didn’t work.” 

John opened his mouth to protest, but found he had nothing to say. “Let’s just go home, then.” _Home_ caught in his throat and he wondered if Sherlock would pick up on that. Luckily, Sherlock just smiled and nodded. 

“Home. Yes.” 

On the way out, Lestrade bumped into them. “What are you two doing here?” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing here? This is my brother’s house.” 

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Lestrade put his hand to his forehead. “I…”

“Don’t,” John said, laughing. Lestrade nodded and followed them to the door. 

Back in the cab, it was silent. John was used to silence, with Sherlock, but this felt different. More awkward. Sherlock’s confession hung over them and John was sure Sherlock was aware of it. Sherlock was perfectly still, gazing out the window. He appeared relaxed, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His hair wasn’t even messy from bed, and John wondered how exactly his hair could be so perfect all the time. He ached to run his fingers through it. Again. Pull yourself together, John Watson. 

When they arrived at the flat, Sherlock just looked at John. Contemplating. 

“Okay, that’s getting a bit scary,” John said after a minute or two.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, evidently reading something in him, though John had no idea what it was. “I’m going out.” 

“We just got back.” 

“I need a case.” 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” John asked before he could stop himself. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I’ll come back,” he said in his usual brisk voice. He swept out of the flat. John didn’t bother to follow him. John knew when he needed space. He needed space now. John called Mrs. Hudson and asked her to look after Rosie for one more night. He briefly explained that him and Sherlock had a row and that they might need to work things out, and that there might be yelling. Mrs. Hudson was delighted to spend the day with Rosie.

John sighed and settled down in his chair to wait. It was only about one, and his stomach protested at the lack of breakfast and lunch. He stumbled to his feet and managed to make a cup of tea. He pulled out a loaf of bread from the cupboard, and opened the fridge to find something to make a sandwich out of.

There was a bag of eyeballs in the fridge. 

John shook his head, noting the familiar pang. Of course Sherlock would leave eyeballs in the fridge and not tell him. He rubbed his face with his palm and wondered what exactly he would do. 

Evening had fallen when Sherlock appeared in the flat. He took off his scarf and coat gracefully, and John watched him. His heart beat a little harder at the sight of Sherlock, and he told himself it was just nerves from Sherlock’s confession. Luckily, Sherlock appeared to not want to talk about it any more than he had that morning. 

“Thought I’d play something.” 

“What?” John furrowed his eyebrows. 

In answer, Sherlock picked up his violin. He placed sheet music on his stand and John leaned back into his chair. Violin playing meant that Sherlock was trying to get back into a semblance of normalcy. 

The song sounded familiar, and John strained to figure out what it was. It was beautiful, notes weaving in and out of each other. The song began softly, the notes drawn out and smooth. It picked up pace a little, but still fairly smooth. The notes climbed high and fast, and Sherlock hit them with precise accuracy. Then the song became rough, the notes tumbling and falling over each other at a very fast pace, and John found himself tapping his finger along with the violin. At the very end, it became almost mournful. Sherlock’s expression was sombre, his eyes focused on the music.

When the song ended, Sherlock was quiet. He made no move to pick up more music, nor to stop playing. He opted to stare out the window. 

“I know what that is,” John said. “It sounds like something you wrote.”

“Very good, John.”

“Only I can’t remember what.” Sherlock didn’t respond, but then it clicked. “That’s the song you played at my-at my…” He trailed off. It sounded like the song Sherlock wrote for him, the first waltz, but more complex.

“Not exactly.”

“Right, it’s a more complex version, but it’s similar.” 

Sherlock did not confirm nor deny this, and John found himself wondering if Sherlock would ever decide to actually talk to him. Which wasn’t exactly fair. He had confessed...something, earlier.

“It’s getting late. You should go to bed.” Sherlock’s voice was steady, but his back was tense. He did not look at John.

“Right, yeah. Goodnight, Sherlock.” John got up and looked at him for a minute. His messy dark hair. The suit he barely took off, even at home. He envisioned himself wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pressing his chin to Sherlock’s shoulder, but dismissed the idea quickly. 

As he turned and walked to his room, he thought he could hear Sherlock whispering goodnight. 

He laid awake in bed some time later, the flat seeming quiet without Sherlock’s usual antics. Whether it was the violin, or muttering to himself, or running around generally making a mess, John was used to falling asleep to a little bit of noise. Or a lot of noise. But now, all was quiet. John didn’t like it.

John laid there for as long as he could, determined to find out more about the song. He watched the minutes tick by on his clock. 10:56. 11:21. 11:47. When the clock struck midnight, he decided he would only lie in bed for a few more minutes. After that, he was going to find that music and find out what Sherlock had written. 

When it was a quarter past midnight he slipped out of bed and crept down the stairs. At the door to their flat, he listened carefully. Sherlock could usually hear when he was going down the stairs, but he heard nothing. He pushed the door open and paused, waiting to see if Sherlock would come to him. Again, nothing.

The light on the table was still on. Sherlock was curled up, asleep, in his chair. His breathing was calm and steady. His face was relaxed. John melted at the sight of him. Sherlock never looked like this. He was never this comfortable. Part of John wanted to sit in his own chair and watch him, though that was creepy. Sherlock could wake at any moment.

John made his way over to the stand. Sherlock had left the music there. His violin was in its case in the corner. The only thing on the music stand was a closed envelope. John reached for it. He opened it. Inside were several sheets of music. He took them out and looked at the top one. It had a note on it. He squinted to read it.

In Sherlock’s messy handwriting, it read _Waltz for John and Sherlock - duet._

John inhaled sharply, then pressed a hand over his mouth. Shit. He glanced over at Sherlock, who thank god, luckily hadn’t moved. John could only stare at the paper in his hand. He didn’t know when Sherlock had even written this. He knew it hadn’t been used to teach _him_ to waltz. 

John had been pretty bad at dancing. He and Sherlock spent many nights dancing around the flat, laughing as John tripped over everything. Sherlock was an excellent dancer, and he was more patient than John had expected him to be. A wave of regret crashed over him. He wished he and Sherlock had danced some more. Sherlock really seemed to love it. He’d consider asking Sherlock to dance now, but he didn’t want to make anything awkward. He still wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about Sherlock - he suspected it might be more than platonic, but what that would be he wasn’t sure - and he didn’t want to put Sherlock in any position that would make him feel uncomfortable. He especially didn’t want Sherlock to think John was teasing him. 

He gently replaced the music in the envelope and set the envelope on the stand. John looked at Sherlock sleeping one last time and wondered if he’d ever see him that peaceful again. Then he went up to bed, his mind blurring and feeling very guilty. It was probable that Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to see that. It was also probable that Sherlock didn’t really want John to know about any of his feelings. John felt like he was intruding on something private, something he wasn’t supposed to know about. Suddenly exhausted, he collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

*****

Sherlock didn’t plan to play the song. He planned to come home and go to his room to work on some experiments. What they would be, he didn’t know, but he would come up with something. John ruined all of this. John was sitting by the fire, in a terrible jumper, and Sherlock had a sudden urge to play something for him. He probably shouldn’t have picked that song. Maybe he could have played the song he wrote for Irene, or some Tchaikowsky, or something else. Anything else. But no, he had to go and play _that song._ The one he wrote for John. 

He composed it the night he came home from the wedding. He had come home, alone. He was preparing himself to almost never see John again. Sherlock had known previously that it would hurt, but he didn’t expect it to hurt like this. He had collapsed into his chair and shut his eyes. 

_There was no doubt about it. He was a fucking idiot. How hadn’t he known before? He pressed a hand to his forehead. Looking back, it was so blindingly obvious. Everything he had done was for John. He died, for John. Yes, a bit for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but he mostly did it for John._

_He curled up tighter in his chair. He didn’t know what he was going to do. That was the problem with him. Sherlock wasn’t good with relationships. He had never been in an actual relationship. He had fallen for people before, exactly two of them. They didn’t like him back. It was painful. When Sherlock fell for people, he fell hard. And he didn’t stop falling._

_The first time, he was in eleventh grade. It was his best friend. He only stopped liking him after a messy situation in which his best friend said something he deleted from his Mind Palace. The second time was right after he dropped out of University. When he didn’t reciprocate Sherlock’s feelings, Sherlock turned to cocaine for relief._

_This wasn’t good._

_Sherlock hated himself for this. It wasn’t fair to John to fall for him. It especially wasn’t fair to realize that he’d fallen for him on John’s wedding day. And the speech. Oh god, the speech. Sherlock hadn’t realized at the time, but it was a love confession. An accidental love confession, but a love confession nonetheless. Everyone at the wedding heard it. Including John._

_Sherlock groaned. Hopefully, John’s obliviousness would keep him from realizing what it was, but Mary was fairly smart. She could probably figure it out._

_Sherlock thought and thought until he wanted to scream. He thought for so long that his mind went blank. It was quite strange. His mind never stopped thinking. Ever. Unless, of course, he was high. Which he wasn’t. He was fairly certain he would remember if he was high, and besides, he didn’t have anything in the flat._

_He took out his violin and began to play. He played the waltz he had written for John and Mary. It was beautiful, but simple. Angry jealousy flared through him. He would write a better song. One for him and John, how it was supposed to be. It would be a million times better than the one he wrote for their wedding. He scowled at his copy of the waltz._

_Sherlock decided to make the music_ them. _Him and John. It would be based off of the waltz for John and Mary, but more complex. It would start off the same. Two men who just met and now would share a flat. He spent all night composing it._

_Sherlock was happy with his end result. Mostly. He played it once through, and then frowned. It wasn’t good enough. There was something missing. And then it hit him. It was for him and John, of course. One violin wouldn’t be enough. It had to be a duet. Of course it had to. Because him, alone, wasn’t enough. He needed John, and the piece needed a second violin._

_Sherlock sighed and got back to work. It was difficult. This was the most difficult piece he’d ever composed. He needed it to be perfect, absolutely perfect. It was for John, after all, and John deserved perfect. He hit the table in frustration. John would never be able to hear this song. He’d have to hide it, put it away somewhere, and forget about it._

_When he finally finished the music, he collapsed into his chair. It was the best piece he had ever written, and he couldn’t even share it with anybody. Much less find someone else to play the second part. He put his head in his hands, exhausted. This was exhausting. Feelings were exhausting. He’d only realized he had them less than a day ago, and he was already tired of them._

After that, Sherlock turned back to drugs. Cocaine, morphine. He had been desperate for relief, desperate for a break. Cocaine wiped his mind clean, made him forget about John for some time. Until he came down from his high. He cried after every use now, always, shaking and wondering what he did wrong. Why he felt like this. Why John would never feel the same way. The only clear solution Sherlock found was to extend the times that he was high. John never called him. Nobody else bothered to check on him, so what did it matter if he was high all the time? Yes, there was Janine, who distracted him for a while. The only issue was that when she left, he didn’t have John. Drugs helped. They were the only things he could count on in his life. 

And then John had come back, for a bit. Mary shot him and Sherlock told John to forgive her. A part of Sherlock had secretly hoped that John would break up with her and fall for Sherlock instead, but that never happened. Instead, Mary had died. Because of him. John had thought it was Sherlock’s fault. 

John _left him._ He hated Sherlock. Those days were the loneliest days he had ever lived through. They were worse than the days after he’d dropped out of University, the first time he became addicted.

The days stretched on and on and on. He started to spiral into a dark place. He stopped seeing the point of anything. Cases became dull. Nights were spent waiting by the phone for a sign. Anything. A blog post, maybe. Or a call from anyone with news. Eventually, he broke. Mary told him to kill himself. He tried. He got high, tangled with Smith. And John saved him. Because John was too bloody good a person. 

Everything sort of went back to normal after that, with the exception of Rosie. Having a child around was strange, but Sherlock found himself caring for Rosie. She was, after all, John’s child, and anything John-related was good. With the obvious exception of his girlfriends.

So, yes, it was bad that he picked that song. John probably would find out at some point. Sherlock would just have to wait and see. After John had gone to bed, Sherlock had flung himself in his chair and stared at John’s. It was a mistake to choose that song. A huge mistake. But Sherlock couldn’t help it, seeing John sitting there. He needed to do _something._ It was either play that song, or go over to him, put his arms around him and never let go. The song was the easier option. 

He rubbed his face. John knew. Of course he knew now. Sherlock intended for him to know. What he did not want to happen is John to say that he didn’t feel the same way. Which of course, he didn’t. John was straight, for god’s sake. That was why he had cut him off. He did not want to hear rejection. He couldn’t hear rejection. So better for John to stop talking then for either of them to get hurt. Because it would hurt. It would ache forever. It would ease up for a bit, and then John would do something maddening that would make Sherlock fall for him all over again. It would never stop.

Sherlock managed to fall asleep, but awoke to John’s footsteps on the stairs. Not wanting to see him, he pretended to be asleep. He made sure to keep his breaths even and steady, and his eyes closed tightly. His face relaxed. John must not know he was awake. He listened as John’s footsteps paused in the doorway for a fraction too long, and fought to keep up the image. Finally, John walked across the floor. He paused in front of the music stand. Oh, fuck. John was going to see the song, was going to see the title. He was going to know everything. Rather, more than he already did.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t move. If he told John not to read it, John would find a way to. He wasn’t going to destroy the waltz. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. Better to let John do what he wanted.

He heard the gentle unfolding of paper and cracked his eyes open. John was standing at the music stand, staring at the paper in his hand. A slight smile crossed his face, and then it fell. His mouth turned down slightly and his eyes darkened. Sherlock hated that expression. It was a combination of pity and sadness. He closed his eyes again, but could still see John’s face. 

He waited until he heard John’s door close, and then sat up. The music sheet was carefully replaced in its envelope. Sherlock looked at it. It had been shifted a centimeter to the right. He laughed to himself. John seriously couldn’t think he wouldn’t notice? He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. Unbidden, John’s face as he saw the music came to the front of his mind. His smile faltered, then disappeared. He filed the picture of John in the room of “Things I Never Want To See From John Again.” It was a small room off of John’s wing, and it broke his heart every time. John telling him he needed air. John calling him a machine. John’s voice on the phone when he was on the roof. John’s voice when he was lying on the ground. John’s speech at the funeral. John blaming him for Mary’s death. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and unclasped his hands. He couldn’t go into that room, not now. Not tonight. He pulled himself out of the chair and into his room. He fell on his bed, but he didn’t sleep. He stared at the periodic table on his wall for hours, tracing John’s name on his blankets. His eyes started to burn but he didn’t sleep. He wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stand the thought of more nightmares.

*****

John wasn’t up when Sherlock deemed it late enough to get out of bed. He debated playing more violin, but that would probably wake John up and that was the last thing he wanted. John was probably tired, and he would also want to talk. Neither of them were good at that. John was good at bottling up his feelings, and Sherlock was good at insulting people. None of that would be helpful. 

Instead, he made tea. 

John came downstairs not too long after. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, drinking his tea.

“Did you actually make that?”

“Yes.” 

John raised his eyebrows. “What did I do to deserve this surprise?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John got himself a cup, and sat down opposite Sherlock.

“We should probably get Rosie soon.”

“Right, yeah, we should. Mrs. Hudson’s probably tired of her,” said John.

“Mrs. Hudson never gets tired of Rosie, but she is your daughter.” Sherlock wished Rosie was their daughter, but he was just a godfather. Rosie was John’s daughter. After he said this, they sat in silence. “Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock deduced after John’s silence became infuriating. He was tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, opening his mouth slightly to speak, and shutting it again. John nodded. 

“About what you said yesterday…”

Sherlock couldn’t help the faint blush that rose in his cheeks, but he merely said, “I told you, I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Too bad, Sherlock. I have questions.” Sherlock steepled his hands. There really wasn’t a way to avoid John’s questions. 

“Fine. But only a few.”

John nodded. “When did you know?”

Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t expecting that question, not at all. “Your wedding.”

“My-my wedding?” John raised his eyebrows. “You knew at my wedding?”

“Yes. Lestrade told me.”

 _“Lestrade_ told you?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, please. Lestrade merely pointed out that my speech sounded like a love confession. And I realized that he was right. Any more questions?”

John shook his head and laughed in exasperation. “So you didn’t know before...before…” 

“No, John, I did not.” 

“If you had, would it have changed anything?”

“No.”

“Is there anything-anything!-I could have done to stop you from dying?” John’s expression was hopeful.

“No.”

“But, Sherlock.” John’s face fell a little and Sherlock felt a rush of shame. He didn’t want John to be sad. He wanted to comfort him by holding him, but that was off the table. Not going to happen. So instead he searched for the right thing to say. Some sort of explanation, an apology. Only there wasn’t one. He shouldn’t have done that. He should have told John.

“You would have died, John. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. You all would have died. I couldn’t have that happen.” It was in no way an adequate thing to say. It was as far below adequate as one could get, actually. But it was the best he could do.

John looked at him. “You should have told me.” He emphasized the last few words. “It hurt, Sherlock.”

“I know.” John didn’t respond. He just kept watching him. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock meant it. He meant it with everything he had. It was a mistake. A terrible mistake. John deserved better. 

“I’m still very angry.”

“I know.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “What can I do to get forgiveness?”

“I already gave you my forgiveness. That night in the tube. Where you lied again.” That was a low blow, and Sherlock knew John knew that. Sherlock also knew he deserved it.

“I had to, John.”

“I know, Sherlock. I know. Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.”

John attempted a smile. “I just need more time. I don’t know how much more.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled for real. “Of course.” 

“Now, let’s go get our daughter.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at John’s wording. Our daughter. John, apparently unaware of what he’d said, was already at the door.

*****

Our daughter. _Our_ daughter. John had just called Rosie his and Sherlock’s daughter. He resisted the urge to kick himself. Now he just had to go and do that, didn’t he. It was bad enough, the look on Sherlock’s face when he asked him about his death. Sherlock clearly knew he’d made a mistake. More than a mistake. John just couldn’t help it sometimes. He was still hurt, still furious.

“Coming?” He called to Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting in his bathrobe in his chair. He hadn’t moved.

“Oh, yes, Rosie,” he said, standing up. “Your daughter.”

 _Your_ daughter. Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard John’s possessive pronoun, but he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for gods’ sake. Of course he had heard it.

Sherlock followed him down to Mrs. Hudson’s and knocked on the door. She opened it, beaming. “Hello, boys, how are you?”

“Good, good,” John said, peering around her. Rosie was sitting on the floor looking very happy. “Sorry about the extra night.”

“It was no problem. Rosie was lovely, really.” Mrs. Hudson went back over to Rosie and picked her up. “I think she missed you, though.” Another smile. 

John took Rosie from her. “Thank you again.”

He turned to go back upstairs, but Mrs. Hudson stopped him. “John, dear, a moment please?”

John handed Rosie to Sherlock. His skin sparked and heated up where Sherlock had touched him, like there were live wires under Sherlock’s skin. He avoided Sherlock’s eyes. 

When Sherlock left, John turned to Mrs. Hudson. “What did you want to talk about?”

She motioned for him to come inside her flat. They sat at her small kitchen table and she got out a few biscuits, offering him one. “John Watson, you be good to Sherlock Holmes. You weren’t there after Mary died, you don’t know what it was like for him.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “I will, I always am.”

“No, you’re not, dear.” She frowned at him disapprovingly. “Mycroft told me what happened. Not to mention the times you hit him.”

John was ashamed about those times. His anger had got the best of him and Sherlock had been so good and kind and forgiving. Wait. “Mycroft?”

“He asked me to keep an eye on you.” Her tone was stern. “I intend to do just that.” 

“Of course he did.” John laughed, not the least bit surprised. 

Her expression softened as she reached for his hand. “Whatever happened, you two better ‘kiss and make up,’ as I believe the saying goes.”

A deep flush radiated through his body and he tried not to let it show on his face. “Mrs. Hudson. I am not gay.”

“I know you’re not, dear. It’s a figure of speech. But I think it rather applies to this, don’t you?” 

John stood up from the table as she smiled at him. All he managed to say was, “I am not gay.” As he left the kitchen to go back upstairs, to his flat, where his daughter and flatmate-who-was-in-love-with-him were waiting, he wondered just how true that statement was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If You Leave by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Word count: 4,707
> 
> So here we are. They still aren't talking. I mean, you can't really blame Sherlock. No one wants to hear rejection. And about the song - I sort of envisioned it as a combination of the songs "Waltz for John and Mary" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72Qx3B4T2mw) and "Who You Really Are" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEFJDnLJrng). It is a love song that Sherlock wrote for John, and he just had to play it. John doesn't know Sherlock was awake. And Mrs. Hudson seems to know a lot more than she let on...
> 
> Thank you for your comments so far. It makes me incredibly happy to see that people like my work enough to comment. :)
> 
> The next chapter might take longer as I haven't even started it yet, but we'll see.


	4. We've Always Had Time On Our Side, Now It's Fading Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter. I didn't exactly mean for this to be as long as it is, but I got invested in the case in this chapter and made it longer than expected. Which means that there will be more chapters than I’d planned for. 
> 
> The case deals with homophobia and famous (real-life) murders for being gay. Homophobia is the main theme of this chapter. It does not sugarcoat any of this topic. There is death and violence in this chapter, plus the F-slur.
> 
> I cannot stress this enough - the motivating factor for murders is homophobia. DO NOT READ IF THIS IS A TRIGGER.
> 
> Apologies for any grammar/spelling errors.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock’s phone rang one evening when he and John were sitting around in the flat. He had been working on a particularly tricky case involving more suicides, but this time they were all found with a gun. Only Sherlock truly didn’t believe they were suicides. For one thing, it was the same model of gun found with all of them, and the autopsy revealed the bullet fired hadn’t even been from that gun. For another, they all hadn’t shown any previous signs of being suicidal (Lestrade got all their medical files). The real issue was that they all happened at exactly the same time, all five of them, one per day. Starting with Monday, ending with Saturday. The murderer had left a note with the time of death on it for all of them. Typed, no fingerprints. None of them lived near the locations they were murdered at either. Today was the sixth day, and Sherlock firmly believed there would be another one. He was trying to figure out the pattern of the serial suicides before the next one died. 

The map he’d hung up showed all their locations. Seemingly with nothing in common, he was determined to find an underlying factor. They all must have something in common. He was puzzling it out. 

“John.”

“Yes?” John was sitting opposite him, reading _The Hobbit_. Sherlock found it a fairly ridiculous book. 

“What do these murders have in common?”

“Sherlock, I really don’t know if they actually are murders. It could just be a coincidence.” John sighed. He turned a page. 

Sherlock jumped up. “No! There are no coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy.” He paced around the small room, glaring at the walls. “There must be something that connects them. What do all the people have in common?”

“Maybe it’s not the people,” John said with a grunt, very uninterested. He turned another page in his book. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Brilliant!”

“Sorry?” John finally picked his head up from the book to look at Sherlock. 

“What do all these places have in common? John, you may have solved it. Maybe you’re not so much of an idiot after all.” Sherlock closed his eyes and fell back on the couch, very still, his hands steepled beneath his chin. 

“I’m flattered,” John said dryly. 

“Shut up, I’m trying to think.” The first murder - Maida Vale. The second - Elthorne Park. The third - Old Compton Street. The fourth - North Peckham Estate. And the fifth - Clapham Common. He clenched his jaw in frustration. There was a common factor, he knew there was. He let out a quiet shout of frustration and opened his eyes. 

John glanced up at him. “Figured it out?”

“No.” He glared at John. “I haven’t.”

“Are these locations important? Historically, I mean?” 

“I don’t _know.”_

“Think. Use your Mind Palace.”

He groaned, shutting his eyes again. Maida Vale, what happened in Maida Vale? He knew he had heard it before. Think. Something had happened there, to someone. He ran through the lists of people. Someone he admired, perhaps?

Alan Turing. 

Alan Turing had died in Maida Vale. 

His eyes flew open, a horrible thought occurring to him. “John. I need my laptop.”

“Get it yourself,” John said. “Figured out what happened there?”

“It’s where Turing died.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know who Alan Turing is?”

“No.”

Muttering, Sherlock took a seat at the table. He looked at the map on the wall. “No, no, no,” he said. 

“Something wrong?”

“I’m fine.” But if his deductions were right, he would be far from fine. _Elthorne Park deaths_. He found a list of people who had died there. Michael Boothe, murdered for...for…

He was jumping to conclusions. There was no way someone could be this cruel. His heart pounding, he looked up Old Compton Road. There was a bombing, at the Admiral Duncan bar. His hands started shaking. Damilola Taylor was murdered at North Peckham estate, and Jody Dobrowski at Clapham Common. His palms started to sweat. They were all murdered for the same reason. With the possible exception of Taylor, because he was ten, but he was bullied for the same thing. And Turing, but Turing committed suicide. He slammed the laptop shut. 

“You okay?” John asked. 

“I’m _fine,”_ Sherlock said again. 

“This will be an interesting one to blog about,” John remarked. “You hardly ever get this worked up about a case.”

Sherlock froze. “Do not blog about this.”

“Why? People would like this.”

“John, do not blog about this.”

John laughed incredulously. “I know you don’t like the blog, but-”

Sherlock interrupted him. “Please.” Soft, pleading. John couldn’t blog about this case. Not this one. 

“Why?”

“I solved it. Mostly.”

“That’s good, then.” John smiled at him encouragingly. 

“It’s not a good solution.”

“Are they not murders? I was almost certain you were right, you’re quite compelling.”

“They were.” Sherlock forced himself to breathe deeply. “Think about it. Turing.”

“I told you, I don’t know who that is,” John said impatiently. 

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, John!” Sherlock snapped. John raised his eyebrows. “Alan Turing was a mathematical genius. He helped solve Enigma, which pretty much won World War II.”

“Okay, well, that’s cool,” John said, still affronted. 

Sherlock took another deep breath. “He was chemically castrated for being homosexual, and in 1954 committed suicide.”

John opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“In 1990, Michael Boothe was jumped in Elthorne Park and killed. Also for being gay. In 1999 the Admiral Duncan bar, a popular gay nightclub, was bombed. In 2000, ten year old Damilola Taylor was murdered in North Peckham Estate after being bullied and called gay. And in 2005, Jody Dobrowski was murdered at Clapham Common. Why? Because he was gay. So forgive me if I don’t want you to blog about this one, John. It hits a bit too close to home.” His voice was hollow and he barely recognized it. This was the first time he’d actually acknowledged his sexuality to John. 

“Christ,” John said again. “Of course, I won’t blog about it.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Who will it be tonight?”

“Seeing as the murders are in chronological order, I think it will be at the Page Heath Villas in Bromley. Gerry Edwards.” Sherlock shut his eyes tightly. He had several suspicions about what would come after that, but didn’t voice any of them. No need to worry John, after all. 

“Okay.”

“Lestrade should call soon,” Sherlock said flatly.

John nodded. “Can I ask a question? It’s sort of related.” Sherlock waved his hand for John to continue. “You said the cases hit a bit close to home, but you never-I was just wondering...” he trailed off. 

“If I’m gay?” Sherlock rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. 

“Well, yeah.”

“Labels are a social construct that should only be used by the person being labelled.”

“Yes, but are you gay?”

“If you must know, John,” Sherlock said, “I am asexual grey-homoromantic.”

“Oh?” John’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“I don’t feel sexual attraction, and I very rarely feel romantic attraction. When I do, it is to men only.”

“I see.” 

The phone rang. Right on time. “Is it Page Heath Villas in Bromley?” Sherlock asked when he picked up. 

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “How did you know?”

“I deduced it.” He was right. 

“This one left a note, though.”

Sherlock leaned his chin against his hand, a bit more interested. “Yeah?”

“Come down to the crime scene.”

Sherlock hung up. “Time to go, John.” John asked asked Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on Rosie, who was sleeping, then they took a cab to Bromley. 

The crime scene was a blur, flashing lights and sirens. Sherlock walked quickly through, John at his heels, until he found Lestrade. “The body?”

“Follow me.”

Lestrade led them to a side street. A huddled mass was on the ground. Sherlock crouched over it. A young man, in his thirties maybe. A piece of paper was crumpled in his hand, and Sherlock had to work to free it. 

_The first. For you._

Sherlock stopped breathing when he saw it. Lestrade peered over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock didn’t respond. 

“Sherlock?” John said. “What did it say?” Sherlock thrust the piece of paper at John. John scanned it, looking fairly confused. “It doesn’t look bad.” 

“I’m not discussing this here.” Sherlock gestured at the crime scene. 

“My office?” Lestrade suggested. 

“No. Baker Street.” Sherlock stood up abruptly and walked away. He climbed inside the first cab he could see. He told Lestrade to get their personal files and to meet him and John at their flat. John sat in the back next to him. 

“What’s going on?”

“Not here.” 

The ride to Baker Street was silent. Sherlock focused on controlling his breathing and not giving anything away. Anything he was feeling. He could feel John’s eyes on him, but decided to ignore it. John could wait. For the first time since Baskerville, Sherlock was afraid. And this time, he wasn’t drugged. He was truly afraid. 

“Back already?” Mrs. Hudson inquired when they got back. “You’re usually a lot later than this.”

“I’ve everything I need,” Sherlock told her. “Except a cuppa. That would be lovely.”

“I’m not your housekeeper.” She frowned, but by the time Lestrade arrived she had made them tea. 

Sherlock opened the file of the first murder. _Jacob White._ He scanned the file until he found what he was looking for. _M. 2014 to Daniel Logan._ The rest of them had similar information. All were gay. The ones that weren’t married were “frequently seen in the company of [a close friend of the same gender]” according to friends and family. He swallowed. 

“Mate, you okay?” Lestrade was looking at him in concern. 

“Yes, fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. 

“No, you’re not. Let me see those.” John took the files from him and he frowned. John’s face fell as he read them. “It’s what you were telling me before. Why they were murdered.”

“Yes, exactly. You see, I was correct.”

Lestrade was looking back and forth between them. “You know why they were murdered?”

“Yes, didn’t I just say that?” Sherlock’s frown deepened. Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but John stopped him. 

“Can I tell him?” Sherlock nodded assent. “The people were murdered at the sight of famous deaths of people who were gay. The victims were gay as well.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered. 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not, and you know it,” John said disapprovingly. 

“Yes, it is fine.”

“What does this have to do with the note?” Lestrade interrupted. 

“The killer wants me to meet them tomorrow. Probably to end me, I’d suppose. It’s fine.” 

The flat fell silent after Sherlock said this. He clasped his fingers under his chin and waited for the argument he knew was coming. 

“No.” John was the first to speak, several minutes later. “You aren’t meeting this person. It’s dangerous.”

“I agree with John,” said Lestrade. “How did you figure this out?”

“They’re targeting gay men. I am a man who likes other men. They knew I’d be on the case, that’s why they left the note. As for what it means, exactly. Well, it’s telling me where to go tomorrow night.”

“Absolutely not. No.” John shook his head. “You are not going.” 

Sherlock put his hand down on the table. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Lestrade glowered at him.

“Neither of you are my handlers. I’m going.” Sherlock stood up and went to his room, slamming the door behind him. He could hear John and Lestrade in the background. Lestrade was asking John if something else was wrong. John said he didn’t know. Sherlock almost laughed at that. He didn’t know how he felt about the entire situation. He had encountered homophobia before, of course, but never someone cruel enough to do this. 

Shortly after, there was a knock on the door. “Sherlock?” John’s voice. He turned over in his bed, knowing John would come in. As he assumed, the door opened. John stood in the entrance, unsure. Sherlock laid still, hoping that John would think he was asleep. He would never understand, ever, because he wasn’t gay. And that brought Sherlock to the other issue. They hadn’t talked about his confession. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he hated things left being unresolved. And unresolved they were. Maybe. Maybe John was content to not talk about it, but now that John knew, it made Sherlock’s feelings more intense somehow. 

“Can I sit down?” 

Sherlock didn’t respond, hoping John would go away, but to his surprise John sat down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the first time any physical contact had happened between them since Sherlock admitted his feelings. He was so surprised that he turned over.

“What are you doing?”

“So you are awake.” John’s face was mixed between exasperation and amusement.

“If you’ve come to tell me not to go, don’t bother.” Sherlock rolled back over. John’s hand was still on his shoulder.

“I didn’t, actually. I came to tell you that Lestrade left.”

“He left?” Sherlock turned his head back around. 

“Yes, he did. He said maybe we should discuss this privately. I’ve no idea what he thinks is happening.”

“Nothing’s happening.” Sherlock scowled. “Except for you and him being annoying.” 

“I’m sorry.” John tilted his head slightly. “I’m just worried.” Sherlock had nothing to say to that, noting that John’s hand was still on his shoulder. He wondered if John knew he was doing that. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Of course I’m not okay,” Sherlock snapped. “Do I look okay?”

“You kept telling us you were fine.”

“I lied.” He turned back around with a huff. John stood up, and in that second Sherlock thought he would leave. His shoulder was suddenly cold and he missed the warmth of John’s hand. Instead, John walked around the bed until he was crouched down besides Sherlock. Sherlock immediately shut his eyes.

“You know that’s not going to stop me from talking to you?” John said. Sherlock cracked an eye open enough to let John know he was very displeased. “I just wanted to say that...well, if I can do anything besides not blogging, let me know.” 

“Let me go on the case tomorrow.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.” 

“Then no.” Sherlock shut his eyes again. 

“You understand, right? The reason? I don’t want to...lose you?”

A strange emotion rushed over him. He had to fight to keep his body still, his breathing calm and even. He was about to cry. “Please, leave.” If John didn’t leave, he was going to fall apart and that was the last thing either of them needed. 

He heard John sigh and stand up. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“I won’t tell you where I’m going tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.” His door shut with a click and Sherlock opened his eyes. John was right, he would tell him. He’d tell him right before he left, in case something went wrong. John would be there. He always was. 

Lauriston Gardens. The first case he and John had ever went on. He was certain that was what the killer was referring to. How the killer knew about his feelings for John he didn’t know, but he would find out. He would find out, and then somehow he’d stop the killer. Then he’d - he’d do something about the situation with John. Somehow. 

He stared up at the ceiling. It was probably better for him to try to sleep. That way, he’d be able to avoid John as long as possible. Sleep came faster than he’d thought it would.

His usual nightmares came back. He had to kill John, once again. But then it got worse, and John blamed him for it, and left again. Then the murderer decided to kill him because he was gay, and Mycroft was telling him it wasn’t okay, and John was telling him it wasn’t okay, and he was being burned, burned, his whole body on fire, agony, pain-

He awoke in a cold sweat. John wasn’t there.

It took him a very long time to fall back to sleep.

*****

John kept a close eye on him the next day. Sherlock tried to pretend everything was normal, that he wasn’t leaving that evening. He spent most of the day playing the violin to an audience of Rosie. John was with them too, having taken the day off work. Sherlock was slightly exasperated with this because, “really, John, why would I leave during the _day?_ I’m supposed to meet the murderer at night.” 

Sherlock found it ridiculous that John was doing this, but at the same time he felt rather touched. 

Evening came far too quickly for Sherlock to come up with a clever plan to get John away from him so he could sneak out. Thankfully, an answer came in the form of Rosie. She was crying, and John couldn’t figure out for the life of him why. 

“Maybe she’s tired,” Sherlock suggested helpfully.

John gave him a look. “You’re just saying that to get me away.”

“Maybe she needs a bath. Besides, John, you can hear everything I do.”

“Play the violin.”

“What?” This was a rather alarming request from John, seeing as he had been playing violin all day.

“While I’m bathing her and putting her to bed. Play the violin, so I can hear you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I swear to god, Sherlock, I will chase you down and force you to watch James Bond all evening.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine.” He picked up his violin and started to play. John watched him, walking to the bathroom. 

As soon as Sherlock heard the water start running, he put a recording of his own playing into the radio. He set it to play, and then as quietly as he could, put on his coat and left the house. 

Once in the cab, he texted John _Lauriston Gardens._ As he promised. He had too much of a head start on John now, and it would always be good to have a little backup. The ride passed more quickly than he imagined. He was rather nervous. Culverton Smith was the worst man he had encountered, but this one. This one was quickly taking his place.

Lauriston Gardens was nearly silent when he arrived. He pulled his coat a bit tighter around him.

“Hello?” 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He didn’t have to wait long before the figure of a person emerged from the shadows. “I knew you’d find me.”

“Of course I would. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Took you long enough, though.” A chilling laugh sent shivers up his spine. _Don’t be afraid. You’re never afraid._

“Show yourself,” Sherlock commanded. A man moved out of the shadows. Short, dark hair. In his early forties, perhaps. An expensive wristwatch glinted in the streetlamps. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s wrong, Mr. Holmes. So, so wrong.” His voice was smooth, dripping like honey. 

“What is?”

“You know exactly what. Don’t want to end up like Mr. Turing, do you? Better if I do this, now…” The man pointed a gun at him and Sherlock stiffened a little. He wasn’t expecting this. He needed to talk, more, come up with a plan.

“Why me?”

“You’re far too clever for your own good, Mr. Holmes. You’ve made a lot of enemies. And being gay is so _wrong._ It’s better for everyone this way. No one will miss you.” His voice had a slight lilt to it. Sherlock hated his voice. Hated his words.

“John will.” He hated how his voice trembled slightly.

“John Watson isn’t here now, is he? It’s just you. Just you, Mr. Holmes. Like always.” 

_He’s lying. He’s lying, and you know it. John does care, he’s just running late._

Sherlock dashed into a nearby alley, trying to buy himself some more time. The man followed him. Sherlock was cornered between a wall and a dumpster, but he couldn’t quite fit behind it. The man pointed the gun at him again. “Enough with the games, Mr. Holmes. I think both of us want this to be over as soon as possible, don’t we?”

“Stop. No. You can’t.”

“I’ve already killed six people. One more won’t make a difference.” A shot rang out, and Sherlock ducked. It hit the wall behind him. 

“Sherlock!” It was John. John was here. John didn’t leave him.

*****

John wasn’t surprised that Sherlock wasn’t in the flat when he finished with Rosie’s bath. He laughed at his own idiocy, forgetting that Sherlock had recordings of his music. His mobile chimed with a text.

_Lauriston Gardens._

He closed his eyes briefly. He reached in the drawer and took out his gun, shoving it in his waistband, and then walked to the door. He grabbed his coat, and went downstairs. “Mrs. Hudson?”

She came to her door. 

“Please, look after Rosie? I know I’ve asked a lot recently but Sherlock’s just left and I think...well, something might happen.”

She took Rosie from him. “Go to him, John.” 

John nodded. He climbed in the first cab he could see. “Lauriston Gardens, quickly,” he panted. “As fast as you can.”

The cab pulled away from the curb with a slight screech of tires. The ride seemed to drag on forever, and with every second John got more and more anxious. He had to stop himself from snapping at the driver, reminding himself that the driver had no idea what was at stake. It was only the life of the most brilliant man, no, person, he had ever met. He told Greg where he was, telling him to bring backup. 

Finally, the cab pulled to a halt. John sprang out of the cab, throwing money at the driver and readying his gun. Greg hadn’t gotten there yet.

A shot rang out in the night. 

Fear and adrenaline pulsed through him, and he screamed for Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t be dead, he just got there. His gun in his hand, he sprinted into the side alley. Two figures stood in it, one ducking, one pointing a gun. At his voice, the man turned to him and fired. John ducked. 

“No!” He heard Sherlock’s cry. Almost as a reflex, John shot at the man holding the gun. Almost in slow motion, the man fell over backwards. John raced towards the crouching figure, hearing sirens behind him. Greg was a little late. 

Sherlock stood up as soon as John reached him. 

“You’re an idiot,” John said, voice cracking. “I thought-I thought you were going to die.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, blinking back tears. 

“You-utter-” John couldn’t even manage to form words. So he kissed Sherlock.

Kissed him.

Sherlock’s lips were warm against his. John’s hands were clutching Sherlock’s coat. He breathed in the scent of _Sherlock,_ comforting, safe. Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, then unfroze and gently placed his hands on John’s hips.

The kiss was short, and when John pulled away he was a bit out of breath. The streetlamp shone on Sherlock’s face. His lips were slightly plump, his breath coming faster. He smiled. A real smile. Beautiful.

“Never again. You hear me? You can’t run off like that.”

“Yes, John.” 

John let go of him and turned around. Greg was watching them. So was Donovan, and Anderson. John blushed slightly. He didn’t exactly mean for any of that to happen, much less with an audience. His heart rate picked up slightly. He had just kissed Sherlock. Just kissed another man, in front of people. He clenched his fist.

“I assume you two are okay?” Greg had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“We’re fine. He shot at both of us. I fired in self defense.”

“I know, I heard the shots,” Greg said. “Two different guns. We’ll take care of the legal stuff, though we might need you for questioning.”

The man gasped from the ground and all eyes turned to him. “It’s true. I did try and kill them. But they deserved it. Nasty bunch of fags.” 

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Nope. Shot him in the shoulder. Figured it would be good to get a confession, and I didn’t want murder charges.”

Greg dismissed them with a wave, telling them he’d call in the morning. John’s stomach churned the whole ride back to Baker Street. He wanted to hold Sherlock’s hand, wanted to kiss him again, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong. After his father, after the murders…

He quickly got Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and brought her to bed before meeting Sherlock in their living room. He couldn’t look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, watching him.

“It’s late,” John said lamely. Not what Sherlock wanted to hear. His face fell, just a little. 

“Yes, it is.” 

“I suppose I should probably go to bed.”

Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall. He gently took John’s hands. “You kissed me.”

“I did, yes.” He tried to ignore the bile rising in his throat. It wasn’t fair to Sherlock for him to act like this. 

“Can I...kiss you again?”

John didn’t know what to say. He wanted Sherlock to kiss him again. He couldn’t have Sherlock kiss him again. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. Sherlock leaned forward and softly brushed their lips together. As soon as Sherlock’s lips touched his own, he stopped. Pushed Sherlock back. He couldn’t do it. Sherlock’s face quickly displayed dismay, then anger, then sadness, before settling into an unreadable mask. John turned away from him and all but ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He leaned over the toilet and vomited. 

He stayed in the bathroom for far too long, and when he came out, Sherlock was in his bedroom with the door shut. John didn’t even bother to go in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If You Leave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Word count: 4,330
> 
> I didn't mean for this whole chapter to be a case, but it worked and that's the way it went so I left it. 
> 
> Background information on each of the six real-life deaths Sherlock mentioned:
> 
> Alan Turing was a mathematical genius who helped to win World War II, but was chemically castrated due to him being homosexual. After a year of this, he died by eating an apple laced with cyanide. The presumed cause of death is suicide, but it's not certain. He died 7 June, 1954.
> 
> Michael Boothe was an actor. He was beaten to death by six young men by the toilets at Elthorne Park. At the time, these toilets were a popular meeting place for gay men. The men most likely killed him because he was gay. He died 30 April, 1990.
> 
> The Admiral Duncan is one of Soho's oldest gay pubs. There was a bombing there that killed three people and wounded at least seventy. This bombing was motivated by homophobia. It happened 30 April 1999.
> 
> Damilola Taylor was a ten-year-old boy. Two brothers were convicted of his murder (ages 12 and 13). He bled to death. Before his death, it was said that he was being bullied and called gay. I picked this one specifically because he was only ten years old. He died 27 November 2000.
> 
> Jody Dobrowski was beaten to death by two men who thought he was gay. His body was so badly disfigured that he had to be identified by fingerprints. Both men had attacked another man for being gay before this. He died 15 October 2005.
> 
> Gerry Edwards was murdered and his partner badly injured in an attack in their own home. Homophobia was partially the motivating factor. Gerry Edwards was stabbed and died in his flat. The man who murdered him was homophobic. He died 3 March 2009.
> 
> So, of course this case affected Sherlock personally. It affected John too, but John wasn't going to tell Sherlock that. They finally kissed, but now John's panicking. It definitely didn't help that Lestrade and other officers saw. 
> 
> Sorry for the long note. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and to everyone who's commented so far. :)


	5. Heaven Knows What Happens Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely wasn't supposed to be this long. My plan was originally to have chapters four and five be combined, but obviously that didn't work out. There was just too much that needed to happen. And I'm okay with that. 
> 
> Internalized homophobia, talking about drugs. 
> 
> Enjoy, and sorry for any spelling or grammar errors.

Saying John’s kiss was surprising would be an understatement. Which is why he wasn’t surprised all that much when John pushed him away. 

He figured that John did it because of adrenaline. He had been worried that Sherlock would die - Sherlock himself was worried that he would die - and it was a spur of the moment thing. Still, just in case it wasn’t an impulse, he thought he’d ask when they got home. 

In the cab, he had tried to work up the courage to take John’s hand, but he didn’t want to scare him off. John was unusually quiet, and an uncomfortable feeling started to bloom in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. John thought it was a mistake, but how could it have been? It was exactly what Sherlock had wanted for years, and to him it had been perfect. Apparently not to John, who was staring out the window, gripping his knees hard enough that his knuckles turned white. So Sherlock sat and watched London go by through the window and thought. Mostly about John. The kiss had been exactly eleven seconds long - not too short, but not very long either. John looked surprised when he had pulled away, so it must have been something he hadn’t thought over beforehand. The only question was what John would do next. 

The sick feeling in Sherlock’s stomach only increased when John got out of the cab without talking to him, leaving Sherlock to pay the cabbie. Sherlock took his time going up the steps, hearing John say goodnight to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock slipped into the flat as John brought Rosie up to his bedroom to put her to bed.

He would ask John to kiss him. And he’d figure out John’s feelings based on John’s reaction. He leaned against the wall and waited. 

“It’s late.” 

Sherlock watched as John avoided looking at him. “Yes, it is.” He waited.

“I should probably go to bed.”

No, no he should not go to bed. They should sit up and discuss this. Sherlock began to panic, pushing himself off the wall and taking John’s hands. He wanted to tell him not to go to bed, don’t go, don’t leave me, but all he said was, “you kissed me.”

“I did, yes.” John didn’t really look at him, but he didn’t pull his hands away either. 

Sherlock swallowed, calming his heartbeat. “Can I...kiss you again?” He held his breath as he watched John. Finally, John nodded. Sherlock leaned in slowly. John’s breath was hot on his face. He kissed him, as lightly as he could. 

John’s hands were on his chest, pushing him backwards. Sherlock stumbled, almost falling over. John spun around. Recovering his balance, Sherlock glimpsed him as he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Sherlock could only stand there as he heard retching coming from the bathroom. Admittedly, it didn’t go as well as he expected. After recovering from the shock, he opened the drawer in the table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. 

In his room, he opened the window. The December air chilled his room and he relished it. His face was hot and he leaned against the sill, opening the pack. He lit a cigarette and allowed himself to feel guilty for a moment, before he placed it on his lips. He inhaled, the smoke filling his lungs. Familiar. He closed his eyes and the night air drifted over his face. It was almost peaceful, if not for the intense pain spreading throughout his body. Spikes of pain intermingled with a deep, pounding ache. His head throbbed, and he pressed it against the cool glass. He couldn’t think about John. _Wouldn’t_ think about John. Just as he had for the past month, he craved cocaine. The relief, the washing away of everything. To be able to forget about everything that had happened and be able to just stop. Stop his brain. Stop _thinking,_ because thinking leads to emotions and he didn’t want emotions. He felt the spiral of anxiety start to pick up, and he inhaled deeply. It didn’t help. He set the cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill and fell onto his bed. He tucked his knees up and hugged them. Whatever was happening with John wasn’t okay. He was upset, heartbroken really, because he had had John. Right there. And then John was taken from him by something, something that made John not like him. Something must be wrong with him, besides, well, everything. Because John kissed him, but then he threw up afterwards. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as his breath came in short gasps. Tears pricked at his eyes. John. John. John. His thoughts moved rapid-fire, circling through his head. Images, words. The kiss. John pushing him away. _I should probably go to bed,_ he had said. And of course, there was the almost death. He would be lying if he said that didn’t bother him. He had been certain he would die, and those brief minutes when he didn’t believe John would come were awful. He rocked back and forth and wished for the moment to end. Anxiety attacks were rare occurrences for Sherlock, but not unheard of, and he hadn’t had once in years. 

Sherlock’s chest tightened, his mouth felt very dry and his whole body trembled. He stayed on the bed, tucking his knees up, for what felt like a very long time as he waited for it to be over. He barely registered that John had left the bathroom and gone upstairs. 

When he finally stopped trembling, he felt very, very cold. The window was open. He shivered. Anxiety attacks always made him exhausted, and he wanted to sleep, but was afraid of nightmares. So afraid. It was ridiculous, he didn’t get scared, but here he was. He allowed himself to lie down on his side, his muscles stiff. His eyes burned with tiredness, but he refused to fall asleep. 

The night was long, and it was hard not to fall asleep for once. Normally, he hated sleeping, but everything in him wanted to sleep and then wake up in the morning to find this was all a bad dream. Sherlock also couldn’t help being angry with John. It wasn’t fair of him to mess with Sherlock like that, not fair at all. He was angry, and sad, and just wanted to sleep, but sleep meant nightmares so he didn’t. His room was freezing, which helped him not to sleep. He prayed morning would come faster. 

Dawn had just broken when Sherlock heard a knock on his door. He pressed his face in the pillow, assuming again that John would just come in. 

“Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t respond. “I know you’re awake.” He still said nothing. “Don’t do this.”

Sherlock sat up. “If I don’t respond, it should be fairly obvious that I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry about last night-”

“I’m sure you are. Go away.”

“I just came to tell you that I’m going to see Harry.” This perplexed him. Heat rose in his face. 

“So you don’t have a problem with _her.”_

“She’s my sister.” John frowned at him. Sherlock glared back.

“I meant with the gay thing.”

“For gods’ sake, Sherlock!” John threw up his hands in anger. “Will you stop making things so bloody difficult?”

“Me? I’m the one being difficult?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously and hissed out the next sentence. “This is your fault.”

John shook his head, letting out a derisive laugh. “I’m leaving. And I’m taking Rosie.” 

“Good.” He flung himself back onto the bed. The door shut with more force than Sherlock had anticipated. John’s footsteps echoed through the flat, heavier than usual. Sherlock heard him call to Mrs. Hudson. Good. Let him walk away. It wasn’t as if it hurt or anything. 

He wasn’t certain how long John was going to be away. It could be for the morning, it could be for the day, it could be for several days. He rolled out of bed, changed into pyjama pants and his dressing gown, and made his way into the kitchen. He took his pack of cigarettes from his dresser. 

The flat was cold, no fire had been lit. He sat down on the couch, lighting a cigarette. The entire flat would probably smell of smoke later, but that was the least of his worries. He closed his eyes, entering his Mind Palace. And he waited.

*****

John slammed the door shut, feeling very bad. It wasn’t fair of him to mess with Sherlock like that, and it especially wasn’t fair of him to get mad at Sherlock for being rightfully furious with him. But John couldn’t help it. Sherlock was amazing, and he was beginning to suspect that he might be in love with him, but it wasn’t okay. He couldn’t shake the feeling that what he felt was wrong. Which was precisely why he was going to meet Harry. He had called her earlier, and she said she would be there.

They met at a little cafe, a few blocks away from Baker Street. He hugged her. “How’s rehab going?” He asked her when they separated. She tapped Rosie’s nose and Rosie giggled. 

She shrugged. “They allowed me to leave. I’m in AA now.”

John smiled. “I’m so proud of you. Have you…” he took in the tiredness around her eyes, slightly bloodshot, and the drawn expression on her face. She hadn’t gone back to alcohol. She was still suffering withdrawal. “Never mind. I’m just happy for you.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Thank you. It’s hard. But I’m managing.”

“Contacted Clara yet?” 

Harry shook her head. “I’m waiting. Just to make sure.”

John nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Should we go in?”

Harry held the door for him. He took a seat at a small table near the window, settling Rosie on his lap. After they ordered, Harry just looked at him. “You never want to meet.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s either you want to check up on me, or something’s happened.”

“Can’t we just….meet up?” John awkwardly avoided her gaze.The waiter brought him some tea and he thanked him. 

She narrowed her eyes. “No. We haven’t ‘just met up’ in years, John.”

He sighed. “Okay, fine. Yes, something’s up.” 

She smiled brightly. “Told you!” 

“You’re such a prick.”

“Just tell me.”

“It’s about Sherlock.”

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth. “Oh my god. You did, didn’t you? You slept with him?”

“What? No, I didn’t.” He put a hand to his forehead, beginning to think that this may have been a mistake. Harry was never ashamed of being gay. He wasn’t certain anymore that she would understand his ongoing crisis, but he didn’t have anyone else to go to. 

Harry tilted her head. “I don’t believe you.” 

John rolled his eyes. Harry was always very difficult for him to get along with, simply because they were so different. Harry was always more outgoing, the flamboyant one. She wasn’t scared to fit in, wasn’t scared to be seen as an outsider. He tried to be like other people, to live up to society’s expectations. “I did not sleep with him.”

“Then what happened?” She still seemed very skeptical. 

“He’s...in love with me.” John couldn’t help the small quirk of his lips at this. If he was honest, he quite liked the idea of Sherlock being in love with him. 

“Well, that was obvious.” Rosie made a noise as if she agreed with Harry. She seemed to be wondering how he could be so ignorant. He wondered that himself quite a lot.

“You’ve never _met_ him. Does everybody know? How could I not?” He threw up his hands.

“You’re an idiot.” 

He supposed he couldn’t argue with that. “Anyways. I kissed him.”

Harry opened her mouth. “John-never-even-looked-at-another-man-heterosexual-Watson actually kissed him?”

“Stop being so dramatic.” He scowled. “I thought he was going to die.”

“Doesn’t excuse the kiss.”

“Harry.”

“What do you need advice for? It seems like you’re handling this just fine. Besides, not only is it obvious that he’s in love with you, it’s pretty damn obvious that you feel the same way.” She winked. 

“I’m-I’m not-” Harry smirked. “That’s not the problem.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Then what is the problem?”

“After...we got home. He asked to kiss me.”

“You didn’t say no, did you? Oh god, John, you better not have said no.”

“I didn’t say no.” He swallowed. “I did, however, immediately push him away, run into the bathroom and throw up.”

She groaned, putting her head down on the table. “You’re such an idiot. It’s a wonder he even likes you.” She peered up at him through her hair. Rosie reached a hand out over the table and Harry high-fived her. Rosie giggled. 

“Shut up. Just, what do I do?”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.” He licked his lips nervously. It was Sherlock, after all. The most brilliant, amazing man he had ever met. If he was a woman, he definitely would be in love. But he wasn’t a woman, he was a man, and that’s where the issue started.

“Figure that out.”

“He’s a man.”

“Yes? And?” Harry squinted at him. “You do realize I’m a lesbian?”

He swallowed again. “Dad caught me once.”

“Caught you doing what?”

“Caught me kissing another boy.” The words rushed out of his mouth. It was almost as if he had hesitated he never would have told her. 

“Scandalous.” She giggled. “I never knew that.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t tell you. Seriously, Harry.” He closed his eyes. “I’m fucked.”

“Yeah, you are.” She pursed her lips. “You know there’s nothing wrong with being gay, right?”

“I know that.”

“Just not for you?” Her expression was equal parts pity and annoyance.

“Exactly.”

Harry shook her head. “You’re a mess.” 

“I know,” he said again. Rosie appeared to agree with her. He kissed the top of her head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t help much,” Harry said. “I’m sorry, John. You really just need to figure out what you want. But don’t lead him on, he’s already suffered enough.” She stood up. 

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

“Because it’s true.” She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have to go. AA.” She smiled nervously. “Good luck.” She waved at Rosie.

“Talk to Clara,” he called after her. Then, turning back to Rosie, he asked, “What exactly am I going to do now?”

“Dadadadada,” she responded happily. 

“I don’t know either.” He wrapped a hand around his coffee and thought about everything. It was time to figure out his feelings, once and for all. It was only fair to Sherlock. 

He knew that he didn’t want Sherlock to be hurt. He feared that he had already hurt Sherlock, enough to the point where Sherlock might leave or turn back to drugs. Sherlock was the most important person in his life, tied only with Rosie. He was fairly certain that he loved Sherlock. Certain, actually. He just wasn’t sure if this love was platonic or romantic. 

John went through everything that had happened between them, and how he had felt with it. He had the slight suspicion that it wouldn’t be so bloody difficult if Sherlock hadn’t lied to him about his death. A small voice in the back of his head pointed out that Sherlock had only been doing it to protect him. John didn’t really care what Sherlock’s reasoning was. It had been the most painful experience of his life, even more painful than the time that he had gotten shot. 

He thought maybe he could have been in love with Sherlock before that, but his death forced him to forget all about that. And then came Mary, whom he really did love. Until she shot Sherlock. It had been difficult for him to forgive her, to essentially pick her over Sherlock. But he did. Because he and Sherlock were just friends, and Mary was his wife. Then, of course, there was the issue of Sherlock leaving his wedding. He couldn’t blame him honestly. He imagined how painful it must have been, and all he wanted to do was to hold him tight and promise never to hurt him like that again. 

Mary had died, and he had projected all his hurt about that onto Sherlock. Again, not fair. He wondered if he’d ever stop hurting Sherlock. He buried his face in Rosie’s curly blonde hair and bit his lip. 

John was probably in love with Sherlock Holmes. Fear gripped his heart, pure, blinding. He forced himself to breathe deeply. Like he had said so many years ago, it was fine, it was all fine.

He needed to find Sherlock and...apologize. Or something. And he probably owed him some form of explanation. 

He paid and stood up, Rosie clinging to his jumper. The walk back to Baker Street was quite quiet, Rosie having sleepily laid her head on his shoulder. He didn’t know what Sherlock would be doing when he got back. Hell, he didn’t even know if Sherlock would be there. Fear gripped at his heart again. He truly was treating Sherlock terribly. First he hurt him for years with his obliviousness, then led him on. It was a miracle Sherlock had even exchanged words with him that morning. Then of course he had to go and piss Sherlock off even more. 

John sighed. Whatever was coming next was going to be very difficult. 

*****

Sherlock was lying, seemingly asleep, on the couch when John walked in with Rosie. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn, so it was quite dim. The flat smelled of cigarette smoke. John considered getting angry, but when he thought about it he really couldn’t blame Sherlock. He set Rosie in his chair and went to the kitchen to make tea. Yes, he had just had some, but it would give him a semblance of normalcy before the storm that was sure to begin. 

He didn’t hear Sherlock moving around as he put the kettle on. Rosie babbled to herself from the other room, but other than that it was silent. He hadn’t bothered to make a fire before he had left, and it appeared that Sherlock hadn’t either.

Once he finished, he went back into the other room. Sherlock was on the couch, sitting up. He almost dropped the teacups. Sherlock’s head was down, his hair messy. His arms were draped on his knees, his bare feet touching the floor. He looked absolutely beautiful. John’s heart ached.

“Hey,” John said awkwardly. 

Sherlock looked up. His eyes were red.

John almost dropped the teacups for the second time. His heart leapt in his throat. “You promised,” he growled, forgetting that he shouldn’t be angry.

“I’m not high.” Sherlock’s voice was a lot quieter than usual, and John realized that in fact he wasn’t actually high. He was sad. His eyes weren’t red from drugs, his eyes were red from crying. Shame radiated through his body. Again, he was jumping to conclusions about Sherlock’s state of sobriety. 

“No. I’m sorry.” Sherlock didn’t respond. John walked over and handed him a cup of tea. He took it, but did not drink. John sat next to him on the couch. Sherlock moved further away. “I guess we should talk.”

It was a mark of how hurt Sherlock was that he didn’t protest. John had expected his anger to take over, expected Sherlock to yell at him or pretend he didn’t exist, but Sherlock did nothing. Absolutely nothing. It broke John’s heart. He sat there and waited, but Sherlock didn’t do anything besides put his head back down. John extended his hand to rub Sherlock’s back, thought better of it, and then put it on his own knee. Neither of them spoke for what felt like an eternity. The silence was stifling in the dimness, dust swirling in the streaks of sunlight coming in through between the curtains. 

“If you’re here to get your stuff, go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Just please do it quickly,” Sherlock said, sounding absolutely miserable. 

John faced him. “Who said anything about me leaving?”

“That’s not why you’re here?” Sherlock’s voice had lost all of it’s usual bite. He sounded utterly exhausted.

“No, it’s not.” John refrained from calling him an idiot. That really wouldn’t help anything. 

“Oh. Well. Good.” They lapsed back into silence. 

“Are you still mad?” John asked, because he really needed to know.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know.” He let out a shaky breath. 

“Are you still crying?” Probably insensitive, but he wanted to know. 

“Not really. Not anymore.” 

John felt like he was sinking. The Sherlock he knew wouldn’t willingly admit, ever, that he felt emotions. He felt bad for the millionth time in the past hour. John was drowning, drawing in incapableness and expectations, and he didn’t know how to pull himself out. He readjusted himself, wondering exactly how much harm would be caused if he pulled Sherlock against him. Not wanting to overwhelm him, he held off. 

“So.” He cleared his throat.

“So.” It was said without Sherlock’s usual malice, just a tired response.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” 

“Okay.” Barely more than a whisper. 

A deep breath, another clearing of his throat. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Sherlock said, rather sharply.

“No, no, there is something to apologize for.” John kept his eyes on Sherlock, even though Sherlock still had his head down. “I treated you horribly.”

“You were quite rude.” Sherlock said this as if it were a fact, which in a way it was. No anger, no emotion. Just like he would be telling John that the bills needed to be paid, or the fridge needed to be cleaned. 

“I was. So I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’d really rather not talk about this-” Sherlock moved to stand up, but John caught his wrist. Sherlock glanced at him, his face betraying him and showing surprise. He quickly rearranged his face back into a mask, but John knew he hadn’t expected him to do that.

“We have to. Sherlock, it’s been off for a while now. Ever since…”

“Ever since I said I was in love with you,” he said dully. “I’ll take it back, if that is what you would like. We can pretend it never happened. I’ve hid it for years, no reason why I can’t now.”

“You’re not listening to me,” John told him. “I want to talk about it.”

“I don’t. I know what you’re going to say.” 

“You can’t possibly know what I’m going to say,” John said. “I barely even know what I’m going to say.”

“Then why are you still talking?” Sherlock shifted, pulled his wrist away.

“Please sit.”

Sherlock sat with a huff, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead. “What is it, then? Thought it over? Figured the kiss last night was adrenaline? That it never should have happened?”

“Is that really what you think?” John’s heart plummeted. He had just come to realize that he wanted Sherlock, and now Sherlock might think it was all a mistake?

“No, John,” he said tiredly. “It’s what you think.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?” Sherlock looked at him for the first time. His eyes lost some of their dullness, replaced by glimmerings of hope.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” John repeated. “Hell, I’m glad it happened.”

“Glad?” More hope was starting to shine through.

“Yes, glad. It got us to talk about it, yeah?” He tried for a smile at Sherlock, but it came out more as a grimace. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Right. Just a way to break the ice, shall we say?”

“No,” John said. “It allowed me to realize something.” 

“That you don’t like men?” The hopeful gleam was gone from his eyes, replaced again by emptiness.

“Will you stop being so difficult?” John didn’t mean for the words to come out quite that way, but Sherlock immediately shut up. Shame flushed through him. “Sorry.” Sherlock waved for him to continue. “When I was seventeen, my dad caught me.” He looked at Sherlock, prompted for him to deduce. When Sherlock said nothing, he continued. “It was...with my friend. My best friend, at the time, actually. His name was-is?-Christopher.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Caught you what?”

“We were kissing.” The words came out in a rush, much like they had with Harry. Sherlock opened his mouth and blinked very quickly.

“You mean…”

“Yes, I got caught kissing another boy.”

“You’re not…”

“I need to finish the story, or else I’ll never say it. Please.” Sherlock nodded slowly. “He was supposed to be gone for the weekend, you know how it goes.” Sherlock listened intently. “He came home, drunk. Christopher and I were on the couch. Neither of us heard the car pull in, or the door open. Next thing I know he was yelling at us. He said horrible, awful things. I don’t want to repeat them. If I was clever enough to have a Mind Palace, I’d probably delete them.” He tried for a smile, and to his gratification, Sherlock gave him a weak smile in return. “I told Christopher to leave. He didn’t want to. My dad started hitting me. He was drunk, not in control. It hurt. Finally, Christopher left. I never talked to him again. I couldn’t. I convinced myself I was straight, that I would never look at another guy again. I started going out with as many girls as I could.” He took another deep breath. “When Harry came out to my parents, my mom supported her, but my dad, he disowned her. I did love my dad, in a way. I didn’t like him, but I loved him. He was my father, after all. When I was twenty-seven, a few years before Afghanistan, he was in an accident. Car accident.” John’s voice cracked. 

“Take a moment, if you need to,” Sherlock said, his voice low. Taken aback by his thoughtfulness, John furrowed his brow. 

“He didn’t make it. I-I never got to say goodbye. He was abusive, and I didn’t like him, but I-” his voice broke again. Sherlock stretched out a hand, but evidently decided that was a bad idea and withdrew it. John almost wished he hadn’t. “Anyways. There was Major Sholto in the army, and I can’t pretend that I didn’t feel anything, but I didn’t ever give it much thought. I tried to ignore it and it worked. But then. Somebody else.”

“Who?” Sherlock looked mildly interested, which was the best John could have hoped for. 

“You.”

The air thickened after he said that, letting Sherlock process everything. 

“You happened. And I didn’t realize it before. What I’m trying to tell you is, I’m not one hundred percent straight like I thought I was. I wanted to be, but it didn’t really work out. And then there’s you.”

“Me,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, you. You took over my life, you insane, amazing, man. I found myself being more alive than I had in years. All due to you.” John swallowed, felt a lump in his throat. “I don’t know. What happened last night was years of internalized homophobia, I guess. It doesn’t excuse it, I know, but it’s an explanation. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes glistened and John smiled at him sadly. “I know I’ve messed up, I know _I’m_ messed up. I’m not perfect, and I still feel wrong about liking men. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m willing to try. To get better. To not be ashamed. I want to try. For you.” 

After he said all this, Sherlock watched him. Completely overwhelmed with emotion. John let him catalog everything he had said in his Mind Palace. Minutes later, he opened his mouth. 

“Is-was-” Sherlock couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“I’m in love with you, you idiot,” John said, laughing through his tears. 

“Can I…” Sherlock swallowed. 

“Can you what? Kiss me?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, not that. Would-can I hug-” He was still stammering. John caught him, a flash of realization overcoming him. He pulled Sherlock towards him. Sherlock was trembling in John’s arms. He buried his face in John’s shoulder, holding on tightly to the back of his shirt. John leaned his head on top of Sherlock’s, burying his nose in Sherlock’s curls. That was as nice as John had hoped for. He ran his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock breathed shakily. John shut his eyes, tamping down the anxiety that what he was doing was wrong, and instead trying to enjoy it. “Does this mean you’re not mad at me?” Sherlock questioned, his voice muffled by John’s shirt.

“Of course I’m not mad.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, before stiffening in alarm. “Sorry.”

Sherlock relaxed more into his touch. “No, it was...fine. It was good.”

John smiled and kissed his head again, letting his lips linger there. They stayed like that, calm, content, until Sherlock finally stopped shaking. When he looked up again, his eyes were red, a tear slipping down his face. With the pad of his thumb, John brushed it away.

“I feel the need to apologize,” Sherlock started, but John hushed him.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I faked my own death.”

Well. John couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s not talk about this right now.” Sherlock hesitated, then lowered his eyes. John knew that look. His mind was racing, threatening to overwhelm him. He was trying to deflect. Sherlock needed time to think things through and sort out everything John had told him. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

“What sort of movie?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously.

“James Bond?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John thought he saw a momentarily flicker of relief cross his face.

“Which one is next, now?” 

“Skyfall.”

“Fine, John.” 

Rosie had fallen asleep on John’s chair, so John put the movie in. He pretended not to notice Sherlock closing his eyes and cataloguing everything in his Mind Palace, instead choosing to focus on the movie. Sherlock was next to him, but they weren’t touching. 

“This is impractical,” Sherlock said after a few minutes.

“What is?” John turned to him in surprise.

“Why are they fighting on top of a moving train? That is very idiotic of them.” 

John shook his head and laughed. “Just enjoy the movie.”

“I _can’t._ It’s not clever. At all.” John neglected to respond. Sherlock managed to stay quiet for another moment.

Not for any longer than that. “Why would she do that? The angle is too far away, even you could barely make that shot.” He scowled. “See, now she hit him. This is ridiculous. I don’t understand why you like this movie.” 

“Please, Sherlock. Shut up.” He was secretly very pleased that Sherlock was criticizing the movie. They made it through most of it until the end.

John should’ve remembered about Skyfall. The place, not the movie. Old family home that burns down. _Damn._

He snuck looks at Sherlock, wide-eyed, sitting there. He was staring at the screen, not even blinking. John saw his thin back rise and fall, rise and fall. The house was burning, burning, burning. 

John impulsively put his arm around Sherlock. Sherlock immediately collapsed into him, shaking once again. “I’m sorry,” John murmured. “I forgot-I’m sorry-”

“Musgrave,” Sherlock whispered. “Musgrave.”

“I know.” John held him, put his other arm around him. Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

*****

Sherlock was far away, seeing but not seeing. Another house was burning, another family home lost. He didn’t blame John for choosing the movie, not really. If he had known beforehand he wouldn’t have thought it would bother him this much. 

Then John’s arms were around him and he allowed himself to burrow in and to finally feel safe. 

He was very surprised that John had said what he did. He was also very angry. John deserved so much better than what his father had given him. He hated the man, hated him with a burning passion, and he didn’t even care about respecting the dead. This man had hurt John, physically and mentally, leaving scars running deep. He couldn’t tell John any of this, of course, but he could think it. 

The sharp edge he had been feeling for the past years was gradually lessening. John was here. John loved him. It was almost too much to process. After the confession, he didn’t want a kiss. Later, but not then. Safety and comfort came first. 

And here John was again. He didn’t think he could ever get tired of being held by John. He was warm through his shirt, calm and steady. _There._ A major improvement over the past three years. 

The movie finished without a change in their positions. Sherlock was too tired to move, suddenly, so he stretched out and laid his head in John’s lap. “Is this okay?” He couldn’t help the small bubble of anxiousness in his stomach.

“Yes, but wait.” John stood up and crossed the room. Sherlock sat upright, panicked. But then John was getting Rosie, coming back, and telling Sherlock to lie back down. Sherlock did just that. 

He closed his eyes and felt John’s fingers smoothing his hair. He leaned slightly into the touch. The flat was warm, John’s touch soothing. His mind slowed down a bit, but it wasn’t frustrating. It was nice. Comfortable. He slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It didn’t stay dreamless for long. 

_A building came into view. His old home. Musgrave. John was trapped inside the house. It was burning, and it was his fault. He had lit the fire. Had been forced to, as penance for everything he had done. Eurus was inside as well.They were playing pirates, and her ship was burning. Victor was with John. They were pounding on the windows, screaming for him. He couldn’t move, could only watch as Musgrave went up in flames._

He awoke with a jolt. He retched, but nothing came out.

“Woah,” John said in alarm. “You okay?”

“Where am I?” Sherlock looked around wildly before realizing that he was on the couch, in John’s lap. Rosie began to cry. The sky outside the window had grown dark. The light next to John was on. 

“You’re here. You’re safe.” John quieted Rosie while laying a comforting hand on Sherlock’s back. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.

“For what?”

“Waking Rosie up.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” John said. “Come here, lie back down.” 

Sherlock did. John ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock pushed it away. “My hair’s all sweaty.”

“I don’t care. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Sherlock laughed weakly at that. “It’s nice,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to stop.”

“Good.” John resumed stroking his hair. “Want to tell me about it? The dream, I mean.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not now.”

“Okay.” Rosie had quieted down. The three of them sat in silence. Outside, car horns sounded, there was laughter, noise. A perfect contrast to the quietness of 221B. 

“Rosie probably needs to go to bed,” Sherlock said presently.

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

Sherlock lifted his head up, allowing John to move. “You’ll come back afterwards?” 

“Of course.” 

Sherlock watched as John left the room. He let out a little breath of air. Remnants of the nightmare floated through his mind, and he locked them away in his room reserved for nightmares. Kept them in case he needed to utilize them, though he wasn’t entirely certain for what. 

John came back soon after to find Sherlock having sprawled over the entire couch. “Sherlock.”

“Yes?” He cracked an eye open and looked at him inquisitively. 

“You’ve taken over the couch.”

“Have I?” He was completely unperturbed. If John wanted the couch, John would just ask him to move. And he would. 

“Right.” John walked and stood over him. “Glad to see you’re back to normal.”

“‘Normal’ is a construct created by people who feel that the only way they are of value is if they fit in with everyone else.” 

“Right,” John said again. “Can you move over?” Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat up. John turned on the radio. “I’m surprised you moved.”

“I would do anything for you, John.” He winced. Oversharing again. 

“Oh,” John said. And kissed him.

“Mmph,” Sherlock said, and then shut up. Because John was kissing him, again. Sherlock hesitantly put his hand on the back of John’s neck. John splayed his fingers across Sherlock’s face. John’s breath was warm. Sherlock deepened the kiss. He wrapped his other arm around John’s back. 

When they broke apart, several minutes later, John panted and grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled shyly back. “I love you,” John said.

“I love you too.” And then he said it again, just because he could. “I love you.” He couldn’t believe he was able to do this now.

“I have a question,” John said, leaning against the back of the couch and intertwining his fingers with Sherlock’s. Sherlock motioned for him to continue. “How did you...how are you not ashamed of being gay?”

“Not gay,” Sherlock said. “Asexual grey-homoromantic.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Sherlock smirked at him to let him know it was fine. “I’m just not. John, you might have noticed I don’t hold many people in high regard. Therefore, their opinions don’t matter to me. Besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You said it yourself, remember? It’s fine, it’s all fine?”

John swallowed. Sherlock watched the lump in his throat. “I do, yeah. I just don’t know how I’m going to work through this.”

“I’ll help you.” 

“You will?”

“I thought we already established that I would do anything for you.”

“Right.” John smiled sheepishly. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Of course.” Sherlock absentmindedly stroked the back of John’s hand. A new song started on the radio.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to dance?” Sherlock blinked at him. “You like dancing, right?”

 _Yes, I love dancing. I thought I’d never be able to dance with you again._ “Yes.” 

John stood up. Sherlock did as well. “You lead,” John said. “I’m not experienced enough.”

Sherlock guided John’s left hand to his shoulder, and clasped his right hand in his left. His own right hand hooked around John’s waist. They started swaying to the music. “This is a terrible song to dance to.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John said it softly, kindly, so Sherlock wasn’t affronted. 

_For every step there’s a step we’re not taking. So let me know if there’s something I’m missing, ‘cause this is all I need._

Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible song after all. He held John a little closer, a little more intimately. The song resonated around the small room. John relaxed. Sherlock didn’t let go. 

_Say we’ll be always, always. Say it will be you and me to the old days._

“This might not be an awful song after all, John,” Sherlock said quietly. John just laughed. Sherlock and John were almost chest-to-chest now. John’s hand was warm in his. His skin was warm through his shirt. Through the dance, they moved closer and closer to each other, relaxed a little more.

 _I am ready for the highs and lows, for the highs and lows._

John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock pressed his cheek to the top of John’s head and breathed in his scent. It smelled like the aftershave he always used. Something that smelled very much like John. “I love you,” Sherlock told him again. He might never stop saying it.

_We will be always, always. Through the highs and the lows we’ll be always._

The song ended, but neither of them moved. They swayed slowly back and forth. This was better than Sherlock had ever dared to hope. John would try, and Sherlock would help him. They would make it work. They always did. John was perfect. John was everything he had ever wanted. Sherlock had fallen, hard, but it was okay because John was there. He was no longer leaping from the top of Bart’s onto the hard pavement. He was falling into John’s arms, and John would always be there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If You Leave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Word count: 6,732
> 
> First up. They watched Skyfall which is a James Bond movie (Daniel Craig). At the end of the movie, Bond's family home where he grew up burns down. It reminded me of Musgrave which is why I chose that specific Bond movie. 
> 
> The song they dance to is Always by Isak Danielson (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZdyIgst-S4). As Sherlock says, it is not a song to slow dance to, but the lyrics were so fitting that I couldn't resist. :) 
> 
> Next chapter will be the last. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read this!


	6. Don't Leave Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the end. 
> 
> I don't think there are any warnings for this chapter except one incredibly brief mention of suicide. This is, for the most part, fluff. Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors!
> 
> Enjoy!

i. 

Life at Baker Street resumed. With one exception. Which was, obviously, that John and Sherlock were together. John thought it was fantastic and brilliant and better than he’d ever dreamed of. Sherlock helped him work through his internalized homophobia. He was endlessly patient (well, mostly), never springing anything on John until he was sure John would be okay with it.

It took John months to start acting ‘normal’ around Sherlock in public (though normal was a construct) and even longer for him to get comfortable with anything else. Sherlock worked in little touches here and there, a slight brush of fingers, a nudging of arms. Every touch sent warmth coursing through John’s body, and the spikes of fear that accompanied it were lessening with each time. 

Lestrade had, of course, seen them kiss already, but he immediately shut up about it and consequently never brought it up again afterwards; John suspected that Sherlock had said something. Rather rudely. Nobody else said anything either, whether negative or positive, which helped to put John at ease. 

Their kisses were always at home, sometimes under the watchful gaze of Rosie, sometimes lazily on the couch, sometimes in front of the fireplace. John had moved his things down to Sherlock’s room. _Rosie would need her own room soon,_ Sherlock had explained. _And it was only logical that John share with him, because where else would he go? Surely not to stay with Mrs. Hudson?_ John, laughing, had agreed and both were more than satisfied with the new arrangements. 

*****

The first time he and John shared a bed, Sherlock had laid awake next to him, not touching, barely breathing. He had tried to make his room presentable and make sure the blankets weren’t burned with holes and that his room didn’t have any chemicals that could possibly be detrimental to John’s health. Sherlock had been completely still, on his side, eyes half-opened and watching John. John, in turn, half-asleep but very much aware of what he was doing, flung an arm around Sherlock, pulling him closer. Sherlock immediately relaxed into his touch, wrapping his own arm around John. _Okay?_ Sherlock had asked. John replied, _yes, obviously, you idiot,_ and Sherlock had grinned into John’s hair. Sherlock had tried to stay awake, and had managed it for long enough to put every second of this into his Mind Palace, but eventually he ended up surprising himself and falling asleep. He blamed John. 

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to John clinging onto him. He was deeply asleep. Sherlock didn’t move, not even a little. He just waited. Soon enough, John woke up and smiled at him. _Did you sleep?_ Sherlock had rolled his eyes, but told him he did. John told him they should continue with this arrangement, especially if it meant Sherlock would sleep. _And I slept better than I had in months,_ he had added. Sherlock agreed. And thus their new life began. 

*****

John came home from the clinic one day to find Sherlock playing violin for Rosie. John’s hand tentatively held the small box in his pocket. 

“Afternoon, love,” John said. 

“Good afternoon,” he responded.

“What are you playing?”

Sherlock stopped playing and held the violin at his side. “It is something I wrote,” Sherlock replied. “It is called ‘Rosie’s Sonata.’ When she is old enough, I will teach her to play it.”

John’s heart ached with the sweetness of it. Sherlock said it so effortlessly, as if it wasn’t the nicest sights John had ever seen. “That’s nice of you,” he said, his voice almost breaking. 

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said. “She does deserve the best, doesn’t she?” 

“Play,” Rosie demanded from John’s chair. 

“As you wish,” Sherlock said, and resumed playing. His eyes met John’s over the top of the violin, and John’s lips quirked into a small smile. Sherlock’s eyes softened. 

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice catching. 

“Yes?” His hands momentarily stilled, the music coming to a halt. 

“Turn around, please.”

Sherlock frowned at him and began to play again. “Why should I do that?”

“I have a surprise.” John surprised himself by keeping his voice steady. 

“Why don’t I guess the surprise? I could probably deduce it. Right now, you’re slightly nervous, as seen in the way you’re standing perfectly still except, your left hand holding something in your pocket, rubbing it, which means whatever it is is small and probably makes you emotional, because you wouldn’t be nervous if it was something ordinary. You’re not good at feelings.” John opened his mouth, but Sherlock kept talking. “You evidently want it to be a surprise and the fact that you came home early from the clinic means you’ve been planning it for quite some time, not to mention you were strangely quiet this morning. I put it down to you feeling ill over the mold samples in our room, but now I see there’s something different-”

“Hang on, you put mold samples in our _room?”_ John gaped at him.

“Yes, I thought you’d notice. I don’t think they’re toxic, but you never know, and I didn’t want to expose Rosie to them.” 

“But you don’t mind exposing me to them?” 

“Again, I thought you knew. Back to the surprise. Is it more samples of ash? Because I know you said you’d read my analysis and you figured out that I hadn’t had a chance to study all two-hundred and forty-three samples. Maybe you thought that I would like more samples, and you would be right, I would. So if that is what it is, you can just-”

“Shut up,” John said. “Sherlock. Shut up, and turn around. And no, it is not ash samples so you can get that idea out of your head.” He tried to sound stern, but his smile betrayed him. His hand trembled in his pocket, and he gripped the box tighter. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but turned around. John began to speak. “Sherlock,” he said. “You’ve-I mean-” he stammered. This was going to be more difficult than he had bargained for. He wasn’t good at anything having to do with feelings. His best course of action was probably honesty. “These past few years with you have been the best years of my life.” Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened. “With the obvious exception of the two when you were dead.” John winced. Sherlock started to turn around.

“John, I have told you that I am sorry, and I know you don’t believe it but I am, I really am-”

“Please let me finish,” John interrupted. “Turn back around.” Sherlock did, keeping his spine and shoulders ramrod-straight. He was tense, John noticed. Afraid that John would do something insensitive. “I’m not upset with you in any way,” John added, and Sherlock visibly relaxed. Good. “Now that that’s out of the way. You’ve changed my life, Sherlock, and I mean that in a good way. As you’ve probably deduced, I was planning on ending my life before we met. Then you came into my life and everything changed. You made me feel like I had a purpose, that I was doing something that made everything worth it. I-I don’t know how to thank you for that. And I know I’ve hurt you, I know I have. I regret all of it, Sherlock. Everything I’ve done. You didn’t deserve it, and everyone else hurt you too, and that’s not alright. It’s not okay with me. I just don’t understand why they don’t see you like I see you. Because to me, you’re the most important person I know. Well, you and Rosie,” he amended, laughing a little. Sherlock didn’t move. “And-I know I’m difficult, you’ve put up with hell from me, especially in the last year with what I was going through, and I just wanted to say thank you. Because you, Sherlock Holmes, have given me life again. You’ve given me everything I could ever have asked for. And I love you. So…” John knelt down on his knee and pulled out the little box. He opened it, displaying a slip of paper. Sherlock didn’t move. John’s heart momentarily leapt into his throat before he realized that he had never told Sherlock to turn back around. “You can look now.” John gave a little laugh as Sherlock slowly spun around, taking in the sight. “Will you marry me, love?” 

Sherlock stared. Then blinked. Then blinked again. 

John had been expecting this. Given his reaction to asking him to be best man, asking him to get married would certainly be more difficult for Sherlock to process. He waited. 

“That’s not tobacco ash,” Sherlock said, with uncertainty. 

John laughed at him. “Better, don’t you think?” 

Sherlock lunged forward and pulled John up into a bone-crushing hug. He was trembling, pressing his face into John’s shoulder. John hugged him back immediately. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, letting him take as much time as he needed. When Sherlock stepped away, he immediately glanced into the box. “That’s not a ring.”

“No,” John said slowly.

“I thought it was traditional to propose with a ring.”

John looked at him steadily. “It is. Since when have we been traditional? Besides. If I had gotten you a ring now, then after the wedding you’d have two and I’d have one. We match this way.”

Sherlock kissed him after he said this, cupping John’s face with his long fingers. Pausing for breath, John looked up at him, pressing their foreheads together. “In case you were wondering, it’s formal wedding papers,” he said, answering Sherlock’s unasked question. “Something for us to sign. After we’re married.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and kissed him again. This time, they were interrupted by Rosie demanding him to play again. Sherlock stepped back, but kept his hands on John’s shoulders. 

“In case I did not make this clear,” Sherlock said. “I will marry you.”

“You already said yes,” John said, smiling. 

“I’m saying it again.” Sherlock resumed his playing. John sat in the chair to watch. 

A while later, when Rosie had grown tired of this and was playing with Sherlock’s skull, John pulled him aside. “You need to remove the mold.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “I love you, you idiot, but _we are not keeping mold in our room._ I don’t care how nontoxic you think it is.”

Sherlock frowned. “But where else will I put it?”

John threw up his hands. “Not in the flat.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but walked into their bedroom. John counted that as a win. He gave Sherlock a moment, and then followed him in. Sherlock was bent over his dresser, poking at the top drawer. “John,” he said. “Do you think Molly would let me keep this in the lab?”

“I think she would, yeah,” John said. 

“Good.” Sherlock stood up and turned towards him. “Dinner?”

John smiled at him. “Starving.” 

ii.

Sherlock hadn’t wanted a huge wedding, and to his delight, John agreed. They decided on a small wedding, held in Sussex near the coast. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to invite many people, but John convinced him to invite a few. Lestrade, Mycroft (Sherlock had tried to tell John not to, but John insisted), Mrs. Hudson, Molly and her fiancé, Sherlock’s parents, and Harry and Clara. A few others. Eurus was not invited, nor even considered, for which Sherlock was very glad.

The morning of the wedding dawned bright. Sherlock awoke in their rented house, sun streaming through the window. John’s arm was flung across his chest, John himself fast asleep. Sherlock couldn’t help but study John, watching him sleep. The morning of their wedding day. 

Their wedding day. 

Sherlock never could’ve imagined this would be the outcome the day he left John’s first wedding. Indeed, that night he thought he had lost John forever. He couldn’t believe how incredibly lucky he was. Working to overcome John’s issue was rather difficult, but it yielded more than satisfactory results. When John had proposed, Sherlock had immediately wanted to say yes, but his brain had shut down (overload of information) and he didn’t know what he could do besides look at John. And then hug him, because he was so overwhelmed. He had murmured yes, yes, and then composed himself. John hadn’t pushed him away, he’d stayed, and if he had cried that night it didn’t matter. John had been there to hold him and tell him it was fine, it was all fine, because they were together and that’s what matters. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world,_ he had whispered. And Sherlock believed him.

John stirred sleepily. “‘M not supposed to see you.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.” John made no move to get up.

“John,” Sherlock said, gravely. “The groom is not supposed to see the bride. You’re not the bride, and I’m certainly not the bride. You can see me.” 

John started to laugh, and after a second, Sherlock laughed with him. Chests heaving, the sound was glorious, echoing around the room. And really, Sherlock couldn’t have thought of a better way to wake up.

Breakfast consisted mostly of Sherlock drinking tea and John trying to get him to eat something. Sherlock refused, noting how John didn’t press him too hard. John’s hand shook slightly on his teacup. Nervous. 

Sherlock opened his mouth. “John, I-” he swallowed, suddenly a bit nervous himself. “I can’t promise that there won’t be another attempted murder. I will solve it though, if there is. I promise that.” 

John gently hit him on the shoulder. “There won’t be a murder. Today will be perfect.”

“A murder would be perfect, John.” He frowned. Perfect for him, maybe. Not so perfect for John. “Anyways. Is all the music set up?” The music had been a touchy subject for them. Sherlock had wanted to play the music of their first dance, but that wouldn’t be practical. 

“Yes, the music is set up,” John said, trying and failing to hide a smile. Sherlock found that he didn’t much want to figure out why. John was up to something, and Sherlock was content to let him have his surprise, much to his alarm. He put it down to sentiment, because it would most likely make John happy. 

“And you’re sure they’re not playing _December 1963?”_

“I am,” John said, looking perplexed. “Why? You’ve asked that several times now.”

“Bad memories,” Sherlock said, not wanting to bring them up but desperately not wanting that song to be played.

“Oh?”

“Your previous wedding,” he said. “When I-left.” John’s face fell for just a fraction of a second, and that was wrong, because he hadn’t intended John to be sad. “I promise that I won’t leave this wedding,” he added in an attempt to make it up to him. John laughed, once, brightly, and everything was okay again. 

When they arrived at the small building for the ceremony itself, Sherlock was promptly taken away by Lestrade and John by Harry and Clara. Everyone else was waiting inside. 

“Congratulations, mate,” Lestrade said from behind the screen where Sherlock was getting dressed. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. “I knew this would happen, you know.”

“I’m sure you did,” Sherlock said, dryly, while only sort of believing him. 

Finally, Sherlock was dressed and ready to go. Lestrade led him to the altar, where he was to wait for John. Mycroft was officiating, and Lestrade was Sherlock’s best man. Harry was John’s best woman, or whatever the term was. Sherlock was unsure. The guests filed into the room and sat. He stared straight ahead, waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the doors at the end of the hall opened. And Sherlock stopped breathing.

Only for a moment, of course, because although breathing’s boring it was quite necessary to living. In this moment, Sherlock was sure he wanted to be living. 

John looked radiant, the sun illuminating his gold-grey hair. Harry had her arm tucked around his, but Sherlock paid her no heed because _John._ His tuxedo fit perfectly, and if Sherlock was being honest, it was a much better suit than the one he had worn at his previous wedding. He smiled shyly at Sherlock, and when Sherlock grinned back his smile widened. He seemed to de-age, years lost as he walked up the aisle. Time slowed until it was just the two of them, John coming to join Sherlock up on the altar. He walked slowly, and Sherlock was okay with that, savoring every moment. He would be sure to go back to it later on in his Mind Palace. For now, he stayed in the present.

When John reached the altar, his smile didn’t break. Mycroft cleared his throat. The room fell completely silent. Sherlock shifted a little, tugged at the sleeves of his suit. Waited. 

“We are gathered here today,” Mycroft said, with little feeling. “To witness the marriage of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” Sherlock held up his hand. “Yes?” Mycroft arched an eyebrow. 

“Full names,” Sherlock pointed out, and John rolled his eyes, but not before Sherlock caught the barest hint of laughter in them.

“Fine,” Mycroft said. “We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson in marriage.” John smirked at him. _William,_ he mouthed.

 _Shut up,_ Sherlock mouthed back. But he winked, actually winked, and for a second forgot Mycroft had been saying something. However, Mycroft was still talking, and while Sherlock didn’t usually feel the need to listen to anything Mycroft said, this time he found himself actually wanting to. 

“My little brother met Doctor Watson many years ago,” Mycroft said. “Those of us who were cleverer in the ways of people could see that they made each other better. While it took my little brother years to figure it out, it took Doctor Watson even longer. And I’m sure you can all agree that it was quite aggravating to watch.” Everyone laughed, and Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. “Anyways. They found each other, somehow, quite romantic.” John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock could see him wondering if Mycroft was the best person to officiate. “Sherlock has always claimed that he was above all emotion, but evidently that is not true. I am happy for them, truly. Little brother, you deserve this.” John’s face relaxed and Sherlock did too. It was the nicest thing Mycroft had said to him, which wasn’t a great sign, but he would be lying if he wasn’t slightly touched. “Now for the vows. Doctor Watson, you first.” 

John cleared his throat. “Right. Um. Vows.” He adjusted his tie slightly and locked eyes with Sherlock. “Sherlock, when I met you, you immediately deduced everything about me. It was unnerving, maybe, and some people don’t like it, but I was immediately fascinated. There’s something about you, something I’ve always seen, that makes you different. In a good way. You’re the best and wisest man I have ever known, and I am honored that you picked me. You’ve been there for me in so many ways, and I’m so grateful. I vow to always be there for you, to stand by your side, and to never let you go again.” John finished his speech with a slight brush of color across his face. Sherlock was sure he looked lovesick, just staring at John like that, but he didn’t care.

“Now for you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock took a stack of notecards out of his pocket. He had memorized his vows, of course, but he couldn’t do anything that would put his memory at risk. Better to be safe than sorry. “John.” He cleared his throat. “You are the best person I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. The best person I know now.” He cleared his throat again and took a moment to compose himself. “I’m not good at anything that involves feelings or anything of the like. As you know. But I would do anything for you, anything. And I will. I will be with you, always. Always.” He finished with a slight blush as well. The admiration in John’s eyes made the awkwardness of the speech worth it. Everything he had done was worth it to be standing here with John. 

Archie came up to stand next to Mycroft, tugging at his sleeve. Sherlock didn’t miss the slight nod Mycroft gave him. 

“Now for the rings,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock’s deductions had been correct. 

Archie held the rings up between them. Thin platinum bands, rounded edges, glinting dully in the light. Sherlock had gone with John to pick them out, and he privately thought that they couldn’t have picked better. Sherlock ached to kiss John, and reminded himself that it was just a few more minutes until he could. 

“John Hamish Watson,” Mycroft said as John picked up a ring. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” 

“I do,” John said, and his eyes glistened with tears. He was happy, Sherlock deduced, but very emotional. Sherlock himself had to swallow past the lump in his throat. John slid the ring onto Sherlock’s finger. Sherlock relished every moment of contact between them.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Sherlock said, and slid the other ring onto John’s finger. A tear managed to slip down his cheek, and he blinked it away, never breaking eye contact with John. John’s expression was so soft, so tender. Sherlock never wanted to look away. 

“Then by the power invested in me, I now declare you husband and husband,” Mycroft announced, and it would be difficult to tell whose smile was bigger. “You may now kiss the groom.” 

_“Finally,”_ Sherlock said, bringing their lips together at last. John laughed against his mouth. “Kiss me _properly,”_ Sherlock told him, and John happily obliged. 

*****

The reception in the hall afterwards was filled with laughter and noise. Sherlock wanted to spend time alone with John, but grudgingly put up with the congratulations and well-wishes from friends and family. Lestrade’s speech had been nice, filled with just the right balance of humorous sarcasm and anecdotes to balance out Harry’s speech, full of feelings. John had looked happy though, so Sherlock supposed it would be okay. John spent much of the meal telling him to eat. It was steak. Sherlock didn’t really like steak, but he attempted to eat a few bites to please John. Mrs. Hudson walked around and told everyone how she had predicted it from day one. Sherlock couldn’t keep his eyes off John, and the light never left John’s eyes. Not even when Mycroft had gotten into a debate with Lestrade over which one of them would be better at fencing. Mycroft thought it was him, and Sherlock privately agreed. 

Night was beginning to fall when everyone made their way into the ballroom. Sherlock was still slightly hurt at the fact that he hadn’t been able to play the music for their first dance himself, but as John pointed out that would ruin the entire point of the first dance. Sherlock acquiesced and consequently hadn’t brought it up again. 

The golden lights cast the room in a soft glow, reflecting off of John’s hair. Sherlock stood in the corner of the room, hands clasped behind his back. John stood next to him. He surveyed the room, waiting for the music to start. Lestrade was still talking with Mycroft, Molly was with her fiancé, Mrs. Hudson with Sherlock’s parents and Rosie. It was an odd mix of people, but Sherlock found himself satisfied with the way the night was turning out. More than satisfied, in fact. He slipped his hand into John’s and squeezed his fingers. John squeezed back. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the rest of the room, but left his hand in John’s. 

Sherlock noticed people standing up on the platform with violins. Two of them, to be exact. He scowled at them. “John. Why are those people holding violins?” 

John smiled at him but said nothing. 

Sherlock deepened his frown, but didn’t say anything. John’s thumb traced a path down his palm and his lips quirked upwards. Mycroft stepped up to the microphone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Habit.

“Tonight, we see two men make vows. The proper tradition at a wedding is a first dance, and we will uphold the tradition. Their first dance was a request from Doctor Watson. He assured me that Sherlock would love it.” Sherlock glanced at John and hoped his face conveyed the proper expression of _tell me. Now._ John chose not to say anything. Sherlock frowned again. John kept his face infuriatingly pleasant. “Could you two please step out onto the floor? It’s time.”

John pulled Sherlock onto the floor. “I’ll try to remember how to dance properly,” he whispered, his breath warm in Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes, do try.” 

Sherlock clasped John’s hand and put his hand on John’s shoulder. John wrapped his other hand around Sherlock’s waist. They waited.

When the first note struck, Sherlock took a step forward, John backward. Second note, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Third note and he was certain.

“You picked this song.” 

John’s face flushed in the golden light. “Yes, well, I saw it. Figured you might like it to be our dance, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Yes, yes, yes.” He kept up the dance, his heart pounding. “You surprise me.”

John smiled. “Well. I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” Sherlock said. It was his song. The song he composed for them. The one song he had never even dreamed of dancing with John to, and coincidentally the one song he really wanted to dance to with John. Sherlock tugged John closer, and John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock held him tight, swaying to the music, moving around the room. Sherlock was certain that he had never been happier. The duo playing the music was decent, he had to admit, though not as good as he was. He couldn’t believe John had done this for him. A contented feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He rested his head on John’s and danced.

*****

Some upbeat song was playing. John and Sherlock were taking a break from the dancing - god, there was so much dancing, not that he was complaining - when Harry and Clara walked up. Harry was holding Rosie and beaming, and Clara had her arm around Harry. Sherlock was relieved. Their relationship was going strong. Harry hadn’t drank anymore, hadn’t even drank champagne during the reception. 

“Congratulations, John!” Harry panted, her face flushed. 

“Thank you,” John said, and held Sherlock’s hand. He was grinning, though, and looked perfectly happy.

A slightly slower song struck up and Harry lit up. “Dance?” She asked, holding out her arm. John let go of Sherlock’s hand to join her. Sherlock was glad. Harry passed Rosie to Clara and led John away. 

Clara leaned against the wall next to Sherlock. “I’m glad you two finally got together,” she told him. “You deserve that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Sherlock said, but he tried to be polite about it.

“Harry’s told me a lot.”

“I’m glad you and Harry are back together,” Sherlock responded, finally. 

She exhaled. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. Watsons. Always irresistible.” 

Sherlock quirked his lip. He decided he liked Clara. “Indeed.” 

Clara patted him on the arm. “I’m going to go get something to drink. Again, congratulations!” She walked off, taking Rosie with her. Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain why other people kept taking John’s child - his child now too, he supposed - but he trusted them so he let it be. 

“I’m happy for you, Sherlock, truly.” Mycroft’s dry voice sounded from next to him. Sherlock very purposefully did not look at him. 

“Thank you,” he said, stiffly. “You did well. Officiating.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” Neither of them said anything for a long while. “I’m assuming you know by now. About the Detective Inspector and I. We’ve been friends for quite a while now, and I find myself enjoying his company.” Sherlock couldn’t miss the hint of fondness in Mycroft’s voice, and thought maybe something else was happening. 

“I suspected,” Sherlock said. “We saw him the day I stayed at your house.”

“I see.”

“Besides, this is my wedding, not yours.” 

Mycroft rested a hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. He clearly wanted something from Sherlock. “I just wanted to say.” Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock didn’t drop his gaze. “I have always believed that caring is not an advantage.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said. 

“I may have been wrong.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps caring could be an advantage, in certain situations. You and Doctor Watson may be an example of that.” Mycroft released Sherlock’s arm and adjusted his tie, very uncomfortable. Sherlock was too overcome with emotion to speak, but Mycroft seemed to understand. “Congratulations, brother mine.” 

*****

John laid next to Sherlock. He yawned. Sherlock found it endearing. “I hope you enjoyed today as much as I did,” John said, softly.

“It was _perfect,”_ Sherlock said. He kissed John gently, wrapping him up against him. 

“Good,” John said, sleepily. Sherlock kissed the top of his head. John cuddled closer. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sherlock said, and meant it. “I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too,” John said, yawning again. He closed his eyes. Sherlock kept his arm around him. “Thank you,” John said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock responded. “Now, you’re evidently very tired. Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” John said mildly. “You too, love.” His words were slightly slurred. 

“I will,” Sherlock said. “Good night, husband.”

“Husband. I like that.” 

Sherlock laid very still as John’s breath slowed and evened out, as he dropped into sleep. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. He kept repeating that to himself, still in shock. The Sherlock Holmes who had stood in the lab and watched an army doctor with a psychosomatic limp never could have deduced that this would happen. He had never expected to be anybody’s best friend, much less anybody’s husband. John’s weight against him was warm, soothing. 

Sherlock unlocked the room where he kept his nightmares. He went through them, one by one, deleting them. With each one, he felt lighter and lighter. There was no reason to keep them anymore. John’s chest rose and fell as the last of the nightmares was deleted. Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes, John in his arms. 

John had saved him. The man he loved most in this world. Sherlock would have no nightmares tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If You Leave: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPmTGFg06zA
> 
> Word count: 5,113
> 
> This is it. The end. I have to admit, I've been planning this chapter for weeks now but it was more difficult to write out than I had anticipated. Anyways, here it is.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read this. This was my first fic, and I'm happy with the way it turned out. It's weird to think that it's over, but John and Sherlock got the happy ending they deserved. 
> 
> The end.


End file.
